


The Cuttleknowle Curse

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Case Fic, Lovecraftian, M/M, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock and John are BFFs, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-01
Updated: 2016-06-01
Packaged: 2018-07-11 15:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7057939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That’s enough,” John said, putting down his cup a little more forcefully than he intended. Even his patience had its limits and any comparison with Mycroft meant Sherlock came dangerously close to crossing that line. “If you’ve solved the case from the comfort of our sofa I’ll be happy to text Iorwerth the outcome. If not, I’d like to text him we’ll be on the first train tomorrow. A murder and a kidnapping to boot. If it had been anyone else you’d be leaping about shouting Christmas had come early.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cuttleknowle Curse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheAnglophile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAnglophile/gifts).



> Happy Holmestice, TheAnglophile! Somehow I’m convinced our wonderful mods surprised me with your wonderful assignment because you were one of the few expressing an interest in receiving a fic featuring my OTP. However, your wishes were so inspiring I decided to forego the Holmes brothers for once and explore an altogether different avenue. 
> 
> Many thanks to the wonderful SwissMiss and lovely ukaunz for an incredibly fast, efficient and encouraging beta! Thank you, ladies.

_I did not retire Saturday night, but sat up thinking of the shadows and marvels behind the letter I had received. My mind, aching from the quick succession of monstrous conceptions it had been forced to confront during the last four months, worked upon this startling new material in a cycle of doubt and acceptance which repeated most of the steps experienced in facing the earlier wonders; till long before dawn a burning interest and curiosity had begun to replace the original storm of perplexity and uneasiness. Mad or sane, metamorphosed or merely relieved, the chances were…_

“I said I could do with a cup of tea!”

“Huh?” Startled, John lowered his book and blinked when he found himself confronted with his flatmate’s singularly piercing gaze.

“You’ve never struck me as one who’d be into diving, John,” Sherlock said. “And yet I had to repeat my request three times.”

“Request? Well, the Holmes variety, I suppose,” grumbled John, but he was already folding over the page’s corner and rising from his chair. “And what makes you think… oh.” A glance at the book’s cover, which he hadn’t really paid much attention to, made him smile.

“It’s not a book on diving,” he said, flipping the kettle switch and reaching into the cupboard for their mugs. “It’s fiction. Lovecraft. I suppose you’ve never heard of him.”

“Fiction.” Sherlock’s snort summed up his opinion on the genre as he shut his own tome: a study on the UK penal system that had kept him riveted for the past forty-eight hours. “Why anyone would want to waste brain space on such nonsense is beyond me. No, until now I had never heard of…” Here he cast the great author’s bundled efforts a dismissive glance. “… _The Call of Cthulhu_ – Good Lord, John, seriously? – and I can’t say I’m sorry for it.”

“I suppose not.” Should John have doubted his friend’s words he’d only have to recall the veritable tsunami of scathing comments that had accompanied _The Doctor_ ’s exploits on telly last Sunday evening. “We’re out of milk,” he remarked. “Why are we always out of milk?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock offered innocently. “No worries, a dash of lemon juice will do me just as well.”

“We’ve also run out of lemons.”

"Oh dear," he said, this time with real consternation. "What do you propose to do about that?"

***

On his way out to the shops Mrs Hudson had intercepted John to ask him to stop by the dry cleaner’s and collect two of Sherlock’s suits.

“They’re so heavy, John, and I’m not getting any younger. But I’m making you boys some rock cakes and they’ll be done by the time you return.”

Thus John was burdened not only with a Tesco shopping bag but also with a bundle of ridiculously expensive wool swathed in polypropylene that clung oppressively to the sensible cotton of his jacket when he rounded the corner of Baker Street to notice a cab gliding to a halt in front of number 221. 

By the time John came up to the front door the taxi’s customer had paid the cabbie and was staring up at the windows above Speedy’s awning. No doubt Sherlock was deeply entrenched in various prisons again for the net curtains hung limpid behind the glazing.

“Hello there. Can I help you?” asked John. The man did a little jump that would have been comical but for the haunted look in his eyes. Which were – for a bloke’s – startlingly beautiful, John noted. Almond-shaped, with deep purplish blue irises (a colour that, Sherlock had informed him during that big jewel robbery case, was properly termed lapis). Soft, thick eyelashes, apparently designed with the sole object of driving an envy-poisoned dagger into the heart of every woman walking this Earth, further enhanced the striking shade, rendering them truly unforgettable.

 _Jeez_ , John reflected. _Since when…?_ But no, that was ridiculous. John was as straight as they come, and this fellow – their next client for all John knew – was just better-looking than most. But then, so was his flatmate – if John could believe some of the comments on his blog, the ones he always deleted in the vain hope Sherlock hadn’t read them – and John… Here, he decided to cut himself off.

“I’m… I…” the man stammered, an elegant long-fingered hand sweeping the lapel of his coat nervously. Several years of sartorial tutelage under the direction of the Holmes siblings had familiarised John’s eye with the marvels of British bespoke tailoring. It was obvious this man conducted an affair with his tailor every bit as intimate as the one Mycroft and Sherlock enjoyed. And of course his voice wasn’t an embarrassing high-pitched squeak but, though its owner displayed distinct signs of agitation, carefully modulated and melodious, like Freddy Mercury’s before the band’s cave-in to worked up pomposity. 

“Dr Watson, what a fortunate coincidence.” Recognising John seemed to work wonders for their visitor’s morale and made him segue seamlessly into the amiable affability of a man of the world, reminding John of Mycroft at his most pleasant behaviour. Which would have been decidedly sinister if just then the wind hadn’t whipped up to tousle the mop of artfully combed honey blonde hair and show John that in this instance the graciousness was genuine. “Please,” the man said, browsing John’s laden arms, “allow me to ring the bell to summon your landlady.”

“Christ, no,” huffed John. “Unless you’re interested in a rant about plot devices. If you’d hold this bag for a mo’ I’ll open the door myself?”

“Ah, of course.” The man’s clumsy grip on the handle suggested that, like Sherlock, he had someone else doing his shopping for him. So he didn’t merely look and sound like a posh git but he probably was one.

“After you,” John gestured gallantly. “Up the stairs. That is, if you came to see Sherlock.”

“And you,” their visitor assured him. “Like any person ascending these steps in a non-social or professional mode, I’m a fervent admirer of your blog.”

“Well.” John cleared his throat, overwhelmed by the other’s oldfangled politeness. “That’s good to hear, Mr…?”

Their prospective client coloured, the flush clashing attractively with the tones of lapis and honey ( _Will you cut the crap?_ John ordered himself). “Pray, forgive me for forgetting my manners. Leighmore, the name is Leighmore.” They had reached the landing and the man pivoted on his heel to extend his hand.

John smiled as he folded his palm around the slender fingers. “Never mind, Mr Leighmore. Even I can see you’re rattled and Sherlock insists I’m rubbish at observation.” 

“Thank you, Dr Watson. I’m indeed not wholly myself,” Mr Leighmore answered. Stepping aside to let John pass he continued, “I suppose you’ll want to announce me.”

 _Posh git, definitely._ Clearly used to having a servile attendant respond instantly to his every beck and call. 

“Sherlock!” John employed his backside to open the door to the living room. “We have a new client, Mr Leighmore.”

“Not until I’ve accepted the case, John,” rumbled Sherlock from his chair, ensconced as unperturbedly on the cushions as he’d been when John stormed out of the flat. He peered over the rim of his book, determined to be stroppy, when his eyes widened and the heavy volume slipped into his lap from suddenly paralysed hands.

“How… what…” he gasped in a voice John scarcely recognised as belonging to his friend. His already pale complexion had assumed the pallor of the grave and a vast array of human emotions flitted in quick succession over his usually collected features. Amazement, fear, joy – brief but unmistakable – hurt, remorse, guilt and, most astonishingly of all – naked longing. Rage dominated however, when Sherlock vaulted from his chair and – ignoring the loud thud of the book hitting the rug – pointed a stark finger at their visitor.

“Who are you?” he shouted, spittle flying from his lips. “How dare you come here and— Get out, get out! Oh, God...” His anger subsided as abruptly as it had risen. Astonished, John watched as Sherlock buried his face in his hands, shoulders heaving on a sob. The next moment he’d fled through the kitchen and into his bedroom, the door falling to behind him with a thunderous crash that shook the floorboards beneath John’s feet. 

He turned towards Leighmore, fully prepared for the sight of their visitor waving a spare set of scaly tentacles; for that would have gone some way to explaining Sherlock’s state of shock. Naturally, no such appendages disfigured their guest’s handsome frame, nor did his knitted brow lessen the beauty of his face.

“I don’t understand.” He hesitated. “That was the estimable Sherlock Holmes, right? The man you’ve described as ‘not caring’?”

“Yeah.” John shrugged. “Well, I was wrong, he _does_ care, but not… I’m pretty much bowled over right now.”

“Indeed.” With a despondent sigh, Leighmore brushed at his coat’s lapel before staggering into the doorjamb.

“Mr Leighmore.” John dumped the dry-cleaning and shot forward to ease Sherlock’s spurned client onto the sofa. The man’s teeth were chattering. 

“It’s all right,” he mumbled. “I’m fine. It’s just… I had put my hopes up and…” A quick huff. “Exhaustion got the better of me. But you should check on Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. It’s obvious viewing my person alarmed him.”

“Yes, but you’re not exactly right as rain either,” admonished John. Part of him was hugely worried about Sherlock but hospitality demanded he looked after their guest first. “Can I make you some tea? Do you want something to eat? Mrs Hudson promised rock cakes and they’re…”

“No.” Leighmore pushed at John with weak arms. “No, thank you, Dr Watson. I won’t trespass any longer on your hospitality.” Fumbling inside his coat he produced a wallet and took out a gold-embossed business card. “Please accept my card, in case Mr Holmes changes his mind. He’s my only hope. I daren’t go to the police.” He stumbled to his feet, and, smoothing his coat and scarf with automatic motions, headed for the hallway.

“Apologies,” John heard him say, followed by Mrs Hudson’s tittering “Oh, not at all,” and Leighmore’s brief “Good afternoon.” 

Before John reached the door Mrs Hudson entered, balancing a plate of rock cakes. “Yoohoo. I heard you come in. Sherlock, don’t tell me—” She skidded to a halt and raised an enquiring eyebrow. “Where is he? I didn’t hear _him_ go out and I can’t imagine _you_ scaring off someone like that? And such a polite gentleman at that. Very easy on the eyes.”

“No.” John shook his head. “It’s… I don’t know what it is.”

“Oh dear. Is he in one of his moods again? I thought the mugs rattled a bit on their rack.” Mrs Hudson cast her wallpaper an anxious glance.

“Nothing like that,” John assured her. “Just... I don’t think Sherlock will sample those cakes, Mrs Hudson. Pity, they smell absolutely delicious.”

“I’ll just put them in the kitchen, dear. Perhaps the smell will tempt him. Together with some tea.”

“Yeah,” John muttered vaguely. He stocked the fridge with cartons of milk from the Tesco bag, while Mrs Hudson tutted her displeasure at the chaos leading an independent existence on their kitchen table and bustled behind his back, busy at not being their housekeeper.

“There,” she said, folding a wiping cloth with a cheerful smile. “Remember, John. Big Bad Dom kills all known germs. Dead.”

“Will do, Mrs H.”

For once John was grateful when their landlady decided they had no more need of her housekeeping skills for it meant he could check on his flatmate without worrying her unnecessarily. Still, her suggestion of preparing Sherlock a nice cuppa of their national brew was pretty sound advice so he went through the motions as swiftly as possible. Five minutes later he knocked on his flatmate’s bedroom door, steaming mug of properly laced tea nearly burning his fingers.

“Sherlock?”

A faint rustle of cloth, then Sherlock’s voice, decidedly off-key. “Go away.”

“I made you some tea. With milk. And Mrs H baked us rock cakes.”

The rustling intensified, which John translated into Sherlock pushing himself up to give John a dirty look through one inch of thickly painted solid wood. “Not interested. Go away.”

“Okay. I’ll just put them down here in front of the door, to the side.”

These words elicited one of his flatmate’s patented massive sighs. On this occasion John welcomed the sound for surely it meant Sherlock hadn’t lost it completely, didn’t it?

***

The following morning, after yawning his way down the stairs, John nearly tripped over a mug of cold tea and an untouched rock cake sitting next to the bathroom door.

Both the kitchen and the living room were clear of consulting detective and as far as he could tell – but then, he was no Sherlock – looked exactly as John had left them the previous evening, which John chose to interpret as a good sign. A distraught Sherlock wouldn’t have shirked from dousing the flat with the evidence of his antsiness. Unease lessened somewhat, John headed for the shower.

Today was his last day of filling in for a GP on maternity leave at a Shoreditch clinic and he was supposed to receive his first patient at eight sharp. One of London’s customary freak flu outbreaks had hit the capital four days ago – in the _bloody_ middle of _frigging_ June – which meant John’s final day would probably consist of a continuous procession of handkerchief-clutching patients shuffling into his consulting room, only to bob their heads as John prescribed hot drinks and bedrest and they shuffled out and off home again.

Without Sherlock’s company breakfast was a prosaic affair. Having stacked his plate and mug in the sink John knocked on Sherlock’s door, prepared for anything ranging from cosmic silence to a full-blown tantrum issuing from his friend’s bedroom. Nothing happened. A brief sense of relief swept over John, to be replaced almost immediately with a sense of dread.

What if last night had been a danger night? That put-upon sigh had hushed John’s fears but Sherlock was crafty; he wasn’t beyond raising smoke screens if he had a particular agenda in mind and his reaction to Leighmore had been definitely off, especially when compared to his behaviour after The Woman’s temporary absence and his encounter with a monstrous hound.

Mycroft would have his hide if anything happened to Sherlock after John had allowed himself to be led up the garden path so he could happily carouse in the land of Nod with all the other full-blown geese Sherlock had tricked at one time or another. After the pool, after John and Sherlock had survived what truly had been the most terrifying ordeal in John’s life (so far, he hastened to add) he and Mycroft had reached an implicit understanding, never voiced openly, but written in plain ink and signed by the both of them all the same. John would keep Sherlock safe; never mind Sherlock danced around danger like a moth around a flame. Mycroft trusted John enough to have handed him the baton of his constant worry. His wrath, should disaster strike, John could handle, thanks to his membership in a select party of people not totally terrified of Mycroft. What John dreaded was the elder Holmes brother’s colossal disappointment in John’s ability to protect his little brother against the vagaries of his own nature.

Cursing himself for a gullible fool John rapped his knuckles against the wood again and pushed down the handle. He put his eye to the crack in the door and let it adjust to the darkness. The curtains’ dense weave prevented any stray ray of sunlight from invading the room. The bed appeared to be occupied; his flatmate’s characteristic thatch of dark curls peeped out of the bedclothes and the blankets rose and fell in rhythm to a sleeper’s regular breathing pattern. After a brief tussle with propriety – for when had such notions ever troubled Sherlock? – John tiptoed into the room to inspect the bed at close quarters. Unless Sherlock employed a doppelgänger it was indeed his friend lying there and not a cleverly fashioned automaton. Relieved, John crept out of the room.

Still, he wrote Mrs Hudson a quick note to contact him if anything seemed amiss, leaving both his phone number and that of the practice. As he folded it his eye fell on their visitor’s calling card. On instinct he grabbed it and thrust it into his pocket.

***

The Tube at morning rush hour and extensive philosophical deliberations on morality didn’t exactly work like a charm but by the time John was fighting his way out of Old Street station he had reached a decision.

During his coffee break he rang Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, it’s good of you to call, dear,” she told him. “But you needn’t fret. He was on the sofa staring at the ceiling when I took him his tea. Cutting me but that’s hardly new. Now dear, you go and take care of all those poor people with that nasty flu and I’ll look after Sherlock, all right?”

“You’re a marvel, Mrs H.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” she waved him off and hung up.

The worst of those worries alleviated, John took a deep breath and – notwithstanding his earlier determination, feeling like the worst turncoat in history since Judas Iscariot sold out his associate – proceeded to phone Leighmore’s number. He’d scarcely entered the last digit before Leighmore answered.

“Hello,” John said, “John Watson here.”

“Dr Watson?” came the dumbfounded reply. Clearly, the last thing the man expected after yesterday’s peculiar incident was John contacting him.

“Uhm, yes. Look, can we meet over lunch? I realise it’s a bit sudden…”

“Well, I’ve booked the four o’clock train to Ivybridge, so I’ll have to be at Paddington at a quarter to at the latest,” Leighmore answered.

“Don’t worry,” John replied hastily. “Nothing fancy, just a quick bite. I take it you don’t live in London. Which hotel are you at?”

“The Dorchester.” _Naturally._ John rolled his eyes. “Perhaps you could join me here…”

“No,” John cut off Leighmore’s offer. “That’s way out of my reach.” _In more ways than one._ “I’m at work right now, in Shoreditch. Perhaps you can come over instead? There’s a pub near Old Street that does a decent burger.”

After giving directions he rang off, switched the mobile back to silent mode and gripped his coffee. The stuff was tepid and even more undrinkable than usual but he emptied the cup to the last dregs. The die was cast now and there was no turning back. Still, no matter how loud he protested against the Jiminy Cricket lodged in his brain that he wasn’t merely satisfying his curiosity but essentially trying to help his friend, the fiendish character just chirruped sarcastically and raised its cartoon eyebrows so high they almost got stuck beneath the rim of its hat.

When he entered the pub his eye immediately fell on Leighmore, who stood out against the rest of the clientele as starkly as a peacock that suddenly discovered itself locked in a chicken coop.

“Dr Watson.” The times John had been greeted with such evident relief were easily numbered on the fingers of his right hand.

“Please.” John seated himself opposite and signalled the waiter. “Let’s drop the social formalities. You already know my first name is John.”

Leighmore coloured all the way into the roots of his hair. “All right, Dr Wa… eh, I mean John,” he said. “My name is Iorwerth. It’s the first of a whole sequence, but I’ve found most people consider this one outlandish enough as it is.”

“It’s fine,” John assured Iorwerth Leighmore. “I never tell people my second name either.”

“Good for you,” the waiter, who had insinuated himself next to their table, said affably. “What can I do for you chaps?”

“The house’s special burger and a sparkling water,” John ordered. His pint would have to wait until the evening. 

“I’ll have the same,” Iorwerth added after a slight pause.

“Are you sure? Those birds over there offered to buy you drinks.” The waiter inclined his head in the direction of a pair of mini-skirted office workers with artfully tousled hairdos who perched at the bar, licking their chops and staring hungrily at their table – or rather the side occupied by Leighmore – reminding John of a pair of wolves he’d seen circling a stray fawn in an Attenborough documentary.

“Some other time perhaps,” John told the server and shrugged at the women, noticing that one of them was fairly pretty. She also was the first to turn her back dismissively upon hearing their reply. 

“So, Iorwerth,” began John just when Leighmore cleared his throat and enquired, “I trust Mr Holmes is fully recovered from yesterday’s shock.”

“Sherlock. Yes, it looks like it.” John smiled. “Last I heard he was on the sofa cold-shouldering Mrs Hudson so the all-clear has sounded as far as I’m concerned. But normally he’s pretty level-headed and so, I’ve been meaning to ask, and I know you already said you never laid eyes on him before… are you quite certain you never met him?”

“Definitely. I confess my memory for faces isn’t very good but Mr Holmes’ features are rather, for lack of a better word, unusual and I would have remembered those. But I’ve been pondering the puzzle as well, especially as his reaction so cruelly dashed my hopes. Pray tell me… John, is Mr Holmes an Oxford man?”

“No, Cambridge, I believe. To be honest, I never bothered to ask. Sherlock claims he’s deleted everything he learned in school or Uni, says it just fills up his hard drive.”

“Deleted, yes, I remember reading that on your blog,” the other man said. Something in John’s answer seemed to please him for the set of his shoulders in his immaculately cut jacket relaxed somewhat. The waiter appeared at their table with their drinks and Iorwerth curled a manicured hand around his glass and sipped at his water reflexively. “But even if he studied at Cambridge I surmise from your blog’s contents he didn’t partake much in social activities, student exchanges and so forth.”

“Good heavens, no.” John chuckled. “Even if he’d wanted to the College would have prevented it. Letting Sherlock loose on an unsuspecting party of visitors is the worst sort of publicity. You see, at heart Sherlock is one of the best and most decent individuals I’ve ever met but he doesn’t suffer fools gladly…”

“… and there is in human nature generally more of the fool than of the wise,” Iorwerth murmured, his handsome countenance twisting in distress. “Oh, John, you will think me a fool if you hear my tale and yet I can’t dismiss the evidence of my own eyes.”

“I’ve heard many strange stories since I moved into 221B,” John assured the man. Pressing him further on a past acquaintance wasn’t going to yield any more information and his anxiety appeared as grave and genuine as yesterday. Iorwerth Leighmore was burdened by a haunting event and aching to share his narrative with someone reliable. “How about you tell me yours? Just getting it off your chest might help you already.”

“Perhaps,” the other one replied, looking dubious. “If I do, will you inform Mr Holmes?”

“Probably, yes.”

This seemed to cinch the deal for his companion put down his glass, laced his fingers and shifted in his chair in preparation for a confession. Just then the infernal pub servant popped up beside their table.

“And two of the house’s best burgers,” he announced, placing two plates in front of them. The burgers were thick, grilled to perfection and stuck between the two halves of a promising-looking toasted bun with a freshly tossed salad on the side. John wriggled his nose appreciatively. He was less happy with the waiter’s decision to linger around them. “Anything else I can do for you lads?”

‘Get lost,’ John was on the verge of replying, but sent the man his most grateful smile instead, crossing his fingers it didn’t look too fake. But then, he’d seen people fall for Sherlock’s totally phony grins. Perhaps his flatmate was right and most people were idiots.

“No, thank you.”

The message was received, apparently, for the server mumbled something about them enjoying their meal and slunk off.

“Please,” John invited. After casting his burger a wary look, Iorwerth shoved it aside and sighed deeply in a manner reminiscent of Sherlock at his most petulant. John shrugged expertly and, after lifting his burger with both hands, sank his teeth into a succulent bite of meat and bun. 

“Thank you, but my mind is too oppressed. I… oh Lord, where do I start?” Iorwerth clenched his fingers even tighter in abject despair. “It all begins long ago, it seems, though I’ve always dismissed those stories as nothing but servant’s gossip, and now look…”

John did so, expectantly.

“My family has always been proud of its heritage, ranking ourselves amongst the first and foremost in the country. My father… that is, if, but no…” Iorwerth faltered and visibly pulled himself together before continuing, “… my father is the Viscount of Leighmore and Cuttleknowle and legend has it my forebears fought with King Arthur against the Anglo-Saxons. If so they must have switched sides for the family is first mentioned in a chronicle dating back to the time of King Alfred, granting them extensive properties for services rendered. According to some scholars the family was already holding lands while others claim these were newly awarded. Whatever the truth, our family has managed to retain our lands throughout the Norman Conquest, the Wars of the Roses, the Terror and the heaviest burden of all, the death duties. We’ve never had to cede or sell as much as a square yard.”

So far John had heard nothing that would explain his table partner seeking Sherlock’s help but this part of his tale seemed to cheer the man a little so John nodded for Leighmore to continue and devoted himself to the remainder of his burger.

“It was my great-grandfather who concluded farming the land wouldn’t raise enough cash to pay off the Chancellor of the Exchequer. At the time the country was invaded by a new foe, Americans with too much money and too few brains and he reasoned it was either pandering to their quest for the past they never had or losing everything his forebears had fought for. He built a huge faux-Jacobean palace, as far away from our homestead as possible, hired a French chef, laid out a golf links and charged outrageously. His neighbours despised him but they had to sell their estates while we kept on at ours. These days we cater to the Russians, Saudis, the Chinese, anyone with money to spend. The hotel provides over a hundred families with a steady income and both the pubs at Leighmore and Cuttleknowle are thriving, something to be proud of in our remote corner of the world.”

“Which is where exactly?” John latched onto the last sentence. Somehow he couldn’t remember having to memorise the position of either Leighmore or Cuttleknowle on the map of the British Isles during his geography lessons. Nor had the station of Ivybridge rung any bells for him earlier. Perhaps Sherlock’s decision to chuck a mental map of the planetary system in exchange for one of UK train stations made lots of sense, even in these times of Google maps.

“Devon,” Iorwerth replied. “Just south of Dartmoor where you and Mr Holmes proved that hound didn’t exist. The landscape is different in our parts, less bleak, not exactly conducive to tales of horror. You’ll think everyone from Devon highly unstable once you’ve heard my story but John, until…” A wave of distress washed over his face and his shoulders slumped as much as the stiff padding of his jacket allowed.

In a voice decidedly less firm he went on: “My family hasn’t always been regarded highly. I remember sitting in our kitchen as a small boy listening to the servants’ gossip. Nobody notices children, you know. Most tales circled around my family’s origins. According to those stories we were the result of the devil raping some unlucky sea nymph he had seduced and locked in the tower that’s still standing on our lands, the Cuttleknowle Turret. Naturally their offspring were giant squids walking on two legs.” 

Iorwerth shook his head. “You smile, John, and I remember smiling as well, safely perched in my corner of superiority. More fool me.” He heaved a deep breath.

“Legend has it those creatures scourged the country, raping and pilfering. The treasure they hoarded in the caves beneath the keep where their mother was pining. You should know our land is riddled with underground caves, and some will have it an underground lake reaches as wide as our territory. Any children they begot they stole as well, before the children were christened, for the devil guards his own, so the gossip would have me believe. With each successive generation the evidence of our true heritage was diluted until we could almost pass as veritable humans.”

Here Iorwerth pointed at himself. 

“You can imagine the effect listening to that tittle-tattle had on a five-year-old. My ears were glowing, though I never let slip as much as a shred of my illicitly acquired knowledge upstairs. If my dear mother had known such slander was issued beneath her roof she’d have wept for mortification. But those rumours weren’t even the worst of it. That was the Curse, the Cuttleknowle Curse.”

“The what?”

“The Cuttleknowle Curse,” Iorwerth repeated as if it were an everyday occurrence. Something along the lines of ‘a curse a day keeps the doctor away’. Except, in this instance, the doctor’s assistance was sought. In winning over a consulting detective, admittedly, but that was one of John’s most important roles as friend and blogger of the great Sherlock Holmes. “An ancient curse that was first uttered by a girl whose child was stolen from her, or so legend has it. The child wasn’t very squid-like, I presume.”

“Or she was a loving mother,” suggested John.

“Perhaps.” Iorwerth’s forehead furrowed in thought. “Perhaps.” His hands still lay tightly twined in front of him. With the slow motions of a sleepwalker he disentangled his fingers to reach for his glass. After a small sip he continued, “I’d erased the exact wording and wouldn’t have been able to recount it if you’d asked me to a week ago. Suffice to say it does what all curses do, promise a dreadful and untimely end to the unlucky soul who dared cross the curser’s path. Why should I remember such humbug?”

Feeling the introductory part of the narrative was over John nodded.

“Six years ago I took over the day-to-day management of the hotel from my father. Our family lives in the ‘Keep’, a stronghold built during the reign of Richard II. It’s been improved and added to, but nothing too flagrant, thank heavens. It’s ideal for children, my son wants to be a pirate when he grows up and my daughter is aiming for the next Lady Godiva. Well, it beats those silly Disney princesses in their pink skirts.” For the first time since John had met the man a genuine smile lifted the corners of Iorwerth’s handsome mouth. He must be an indulgent parent.

“We’re a small family, my lovely wife and I, the children, my father, Lilly, that’s the children’s nanny and our housekeeper, Knowles. Knowles hadn’t been long with us yet, a little over a year, but we’d come to rely rather heavily on her, my father especially. He thought the world of that woman.

“I already mentioned the Cuttleknowle Turret, didn’t I? It’s even older than the Keep but in excellent condition as well and though we have plenty of room my father claimed the noise the children produce distracts him, so six months ago he moved into the tower. Of course that added to the burden of Knowles’ duties, the distance between the Keep and the tower being a little over a mile but, like I said, my father and Knowles struck up a rapport and Knowles absolutely refused extra wages for the additional work. She ran the household like clockwork. My wife is sickly and it was a relief to have the woman and know I could rely on her.”

“You’re using the past tense,” John observed.

“Yes. You already know why, John...” Having chattered on nicely for a considerable time, Iorwerth now faltered.

“Because she’s dead and that’s why you came to find Sherlock,” John concluded. 

“We were enjoying our annual family holiday in Italy, just the four of us together with Lilly when I received a call five days ago from the local grocer. She’d made her daily delivery to the house, looking forward to sharing the village gossip over a cup of tea but nobody answered the door. At the hotel they told her they hadn’t seen Knowles the past three days, nor my father. She drove all the way back to the tower but found the door locked there as well. That’s when she decided to phone us. Obviously I considered contacting the police but thought better of it. Maybe it was a misunderstanding of some sort… I don’t know. I rang and rang both my father's and Knowles' number endlessly, but all I got was their voicemail. By the evening I was a bundle of nerves, it wasn’t like my father nor Knowles to cut all lines of communication so drastically and without warning. The following morning I made for Heathrow on the earliest flight. And what I found then…”

For an instant John was afraid the man would burst into tears. His colouring faded into the same chalky white as the wall behind his back, as if he were a chameleon who belatedly tried to blend in with its surroundings. 

“Please, have a little more water,” John urged.

“How’s it going over here, lads?” The waiter chose that moment to reappear like an annoying jack-in-the-box. 

“Fine. Thank you,” John all but hissed, willing the nuisance to depart and leave them be.

“Righto. Anything I can do, just wave.” It seemed the server wasn’t completely indifferent to his clients’ desires for he pivoted on his heel and made a beeline for the pub’s pavement terrace.

Meanwhile Iorwerth had put the interruption to good use and swallowed half a glass of water before proceeding. “I found the keep immaculate, save for the groceries at the back door, but empty. Having checked every nook and cranny I hurried to the tower. At first sight there was nothing to alarm me. The living room was the usual disarray of old books and pamphlets and scrolls, nothing out of the ordinary. Upstairs in my father’s bedroom I found his bed immaculately made. He has a little annexe with a shower and sink. I felt his shaving brush, which was dry to the touch. Now that was odd, for my father shaves every morning and it wasn’t a warm day so I expected the hairs to feel damp at least. That’s when I began to feel truly afraid. I hurried up the stairs to the top of the tower but all I found was the open sky. Now there was only one place left unsearched, the cellar. You’ll laugh at me but I had kept that for the last because of those horrible stories from my youth. For years I had dismissed them as so much nonsense but now I remembered each and every one of them, complete with all the colourful details. The devil gained entry into the tower through a hole in the floor when he visited his mistress and later their children used that same hole when they went on their nightly raids. God knows what awaited me there.”

Distractions due to annoying waiters and other clients notwithstanding, John was grateful they were sitting in a noisy pub and not in the relative tranquillity of 221B’s sitting room for Sherlock’s snort would have vexed John at least as much as Iorwerth Leighmore. The man’s attractive countenance glistened with a sheen of sweat. His delicate fingers rattled against the glass. When he’d managed to lift it his pretty lips wrapped around the rim with the desperate exigency of a man who’d spent thirty days and nights travelling a desert.

“The stench that hit me when I opened the door. It was… like a wall of putrefaction, like walking into an abandoned meat and fish market, when the ice has long melted and the meat is rotting on the slabs. I gagged into my handkerchief. The electricity didn’t work and the torch wasn’t on its hook near the door. I… I’m not a courageous man, Dr… I mean John. My knees were rattling. And that smell, that overpowering terrible stink. I contemplated turning round and fetching help at the hotel but I didn’t know what I would find down there and well… there’s the family reputation to consider. So using my phone for a torch I proceeded down the stairs. There were puddles, I stepped into one immediately as soon as I reached the floor. It wasn’t deep but the noise made me cry out. I swept my torch around the cellar…”

Iorwerth broke off and, eyes closed, heaved a few deep breaths. John poured him some more water.

“Thank you. At first I didn’t see the body, my hands were shaking too much but then the beam bounced over something that looked like a human arm. It was Knowles. She… she was dead. Covered in blood and gore and with a knife in her hand. Her eyes were bulging and her tongue was lolling out of her mouth in a most unladylike manner. That’s what struck me first, the obscenity of that naked tongue. But the worst was, oh, I don’t know how to describe it, the worst was the horror. In her eyes, those dead eyes, there was an expression of the most abject terror. I found it was too much to look at the woman and continued my search for my father, saying to myself I was now prepared for any eventuality. Hah, little did I realise what sat awaiting me. I never located my father, he might be dead for all I know. Swinging my phone everywhere I at last reached the wall furthest from the door. Now I told you I’m not a brave man, not like you and Mr Holmes, didn’t I?”

The question was rhetorical so John answered with one of his own. “What did you find, Iorwerth?”

“It was the Curse… the Cuttleknowle Curse, every last word of it, scratched into the plaster in glowing letters ten inches high at least. I… I took one look and I ran… I ran as if the devil himself and all my odious forebears were hot on my heels. At Ivybridge I boarded the first train for London and that’s how you found me at your doorstep yesterday.” 

With the same abruptness he had employed to finish his story Iorwerth fell silent. His hands, which had twitched and shifted throughout, underscoring sentences and pointing out particulars, stilled, their paleness painting a stark contrast with the table’s dark veneer. 

“Well, you looked fairly unfazed, for a bloke who’d just received such a shocker,” John ventured delicately. He was imagining Sherlock’s reaction upon hearing the story, his ears already ringing with the crusty rant the irate detective would let loose upon an innocent world and the messenger in particular once he learned he’d forgone a field day of unravelling a juicy mystery for a crotchety study of the twelve square feet of ceiling straight above 221B’s sofa. 

Iorwerth offered John a weak smile. “That shows looks can be deceiving. And the journey from our neck of the woods to London takes nearly four hours. If Mr Holmes hadn’t… he would have… But I suppose there’s nothing for it but to turn to the police after all. Oh God, what am I going to tell Abigail? My wife. I haven’t spoken to her yet and I promised she wouldn’t have to worry as long as she didn’t hear from me. And now, oh, whatever am I going to do?”

Fresh panic ransomed his voice again. Really, the bloke may be a bit stuffy but John sympathised with his plight all the same. Living under the burden of an old family curse, for all the stuff and nonsense it entailed couldn’t be fun, even in the high-tech, clinical twenty-first century.

“Look,” John said. “Again, I don’t know what was going on yesterday. I’ve never seen Sherlock so out of it for no apparent reason. There was that HOUND case but he was drugged then and yesterday was just like any other with Sherlock being a prat but hey, what’s new. When I left the flat he was fine. Whatever possessed him to start shouting at you like he did, I can’t make heads or tails of it. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to visit again but I promise you I’ll talk to him as soon as I get home and I’ll try winning him over to your cause. Don’t get your hopes up yet but a mysterious murder normally works like a charm with him. I’ll give you a call this evening. If all goes well you can expect us on tomorrow’s first train.”

“I understand.” Without warning Iorwerth’s eyes filled with tears and his voice was saturated with choked-back emotion. “Oh, thank you, thank you, John. I knew I could rely on you and I have every faith in you in persuading Mr Holmes to find the villain who killed Knowles and find my father. You don’t know how many times I’ve chided myself for running like I did, with my tail between my legs. Of course it was a human being who took Knowles’ life. Reason dictates so. The alternative would be totally idiotic. But that horrible, horrible curse flashing suddenly in that total darkness…”

“Of course,” John soothed in his warmest tones. “Look, I’m really sorry but I’ve got to dash, the clinic re-opens in ten minutes.” He cast a furtive glance around the pub but of course the wretched waiter had chosen that exact moment to go awol. “I’ll deal with the tab,” John said and legged it to the bar.

Outside Old Street glowed and glittered in a freak burst of golden sunlight that bounced off the glitzy Bezier apartments and the glass walls of the new high-rises that had mushroomed along the dingy old thoroughfare. 

John and Iorwerth shook hands, Iorwerth cradling John’s between his slender fingers.

“Goodbye, John.” It was obvious he was contemplating adding a host of beseeching entreaties but decided to stifle them instead. He spun on his heels rather briskly and headed off in the direction of the Tube station. John was about to hoof it to the clinic when an all too familiar black sedan sidled up to the kerb. Its back door opened.

“No,” John informed the car’s shiny roof. “I’m due at the clinic…,” here he pretended to check his watch, “…three minutes ago in fact, so sadly I have to do without a friendly chat. Maybe next time, bye.”

“Get into the car, John,” Mycroft commanded in his customary clipped tones from inside the vehicle. “The clinic situation is resolved. Your replacement’s credentials were deemed fully satisfactory, naturally, and your former colleagues will text you the details for the farewell drinks.”

“What?”

A waspish sigh that neatly matched any of Sherlock’s for sheer petulance rose from the back seat.

“You heard me perfectly fine, John. There was nothing wrong with your ears last time I checked. Please cut the dramatics and get into the car. Do you really believe I would concern myself with finding a temporary stand-in for your job if there were an alternative solution for the conundrum?”

Acceding Mycroft did have a point there John huffed a crusty sigh of his own – noticing his was a less accomplished affair than those of either Holmes sibling – and wedged his backside onto the smooth fawn leather of the back seat.

“There you are.” Mycroft graced John with his friendliest smile, which never failed to remind John of a nature documentary on the feeding habits of the king cobra he’d once watched. The unavoidable David Attenborough had waxed lyrical on nature’s ingenuity but John had felt slightly nauseated by the time he aimed the control at the telly. 

“Yes, here I am,” John affirmed. “Now what’s this conundrum you’re going on about?”

“221B Baker Street, Anthony. And some privacy.” Despite its bulk the vehicle fused effortlessly into the perpetual gridlock that comprised London’s major thoroughfares, congestion charge or no. Undoubtedly Mycroft had the sedan rigged with an invisible force field that pushed aside any car recklessly taunting the British government with its presence. 

“Please be so kind as to check your phone,” Mycroft demanded once the glass partition had slotted into place. 

“Why?” John demanded in turn. Where the Holmes brothers had picked up the notion John Hamish Watson, ex RAMC, was theirs to order around as they saw fit, would likely remain the biggest mystery of John’s life. “It’s on silent mode but I put it in my pocket so I would feel…”

Reaching behind him John extracted the mobile from his jeans to shove the final proof that he was nothing but a vexatious meddling busybody straight under Mycroft’s obnoxiously prying nose. 

_**36** missed text messages_  
_**23** missed calls_, the screen read.

“You were saying?” Mycroft enquired politely. As a surviving witness of the verbal trench warfare that overtook the flat like clockwork five minutes after Mycroft’s entry into their living room John acknowledged Mycroft was currently doing an excellent job of reining in the smugness. 

“I don’t understand,” John said. “I put it on silent but it was supposed…”

“Allow me?” Mycroft extended his hand, palm upwards. 

“Look,” he edified, holding the mobile at such an angle John had a good view of the screen and Mycroft’s hands, which proved to be as adept at handling the device as his PA’s and his brother’s. “In switching it to silent mode you inadvertently de-activated vibrate mode as well. A common occurrence, it happens to thousands of users on a daily basis.” Demonstration over, he dropped the phone into John’s limp hand. As usual when dealing with Mycroft, John wavered between open admiration for the man’s suavity and equally serious aggravation at the supercilious git’s maddening air of superiority.

“You’ll find most of those messages and calls are from Detective Inspector Lestrade. A perplexing case in Mayfair, rather high profile according to the Detective Inspector. He contacted me after an hour of trying to reach either you or Sherlock. He didn’t want to ring Mrs Hudson for fear of alarming her.”

“There’s nothing…” John began.

“Indeed,” Mycroft agreed pleasantly, twirling his brolly that was planted firmly between his legs to underscore he was aware John hadn’t been negligent in looking after his younger sibling. “I’ve been acquainted with Mrs Hudson for a few more years than the good DI and consider myself a connoisseur of the human race and its various quirks and oddities. Mrs Hudson is as constant as the rock of Gibraltar. Of course I never hesitated phoning her, only to have my suspicions confirmed that my dear brother was sulking on your sofa, too busy enjoying one of his wearisome strops to answer his phone.”

“He did have…”

“Of course the resemblance is indeed remarkable.” Mycroft plonked his own phone not quite into John’s face, then lowered the instrument to afford John a good view of its screen.

“But that’s… that’s…” John gasped, staring at the projected image of a younger Sherlock, a Sherlock in his early twenties with his arm around Iorwerth Leighmore’s narrow waist and gracing the younger Iorwerth with an expression so full of open adoration and wonder that his face shone like a candle-lit icon. If asked, John would have sworn Sherlock’s repertoire lacked such a countenance – too much sentiment. The closest came that moment when, after a long afternoon bent over the microscope staring at slides covered with vile green mucus that stank to high heaven, Sherlock had suddenly slapped his palms on the kitchen table and shouted: “Obviously. I’m an idiot for not having seen it straightaway.” John had forgotten what the commotion was about but he remembered the air of beatific bliss on Sherlock’s face.

And here it was again, intensified perhaps by the loving look the object of Sherlock’s... desire (John’s thoughts leapt back to the amalgam of expressions flitting over Sherlock’s face yesterday) returned, which matched the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze with such fervour that John felt compelled to avert his eyes as the heat radiating from the screen warmed his face.

“Identical twins, John. That’s Iorwerth Leighmore’s twin brother, Wickliffe Leighmore. I declare I’ve never heard of another family so intent on burdening their offspring with the curse of a bizarre first name. Only imagine what those two must have lived through at Harrow. The cruelty of schoolboys.”

“Yes.” John’s eyes had swerved back and he was busy studying the photograph again. 

“There’s more, lots in fact, nothing unseemly though. They must have ended up at some party where someone had a camera handy – hard to envisage Sherlock voluntarily mixing with society, but he was younger then, and very much in love. I found the pictures clearing out Sherlock’s room.”

“Why?” The word dropped from John’s mouth automatically as Mycroft’s meticulously manicured finger swiped through photograph after photograph of Sherlock and the boy. It was like flicking through a catalogue of peerless Arabian colts – one as black as the starry night, the other glowing pale as the lustrous moon – prancing around each other on long legs and pressing their heads close in an elaborate courting ritual.

“My parents were still reeling from the shock and the college needed Sherlock’s room cleared as soon as possible as it was in a prime location.”

“Yes.” John tore his gaze away from the screen to settle it directly on Mycroft. “But why?”

Air escaped from Mycroft’s mouth in one of his singular, small sighs, as if he’d adopted John as another – equally exasperating and eventually disappointing – brother. “You already know the answer, John. Sherlock’s reaction yesterday told you. He never knew Wickliffe had a brother, he never even knew Wickliffe’s real name. Sherlock first met and soon fell in love with a boy who told him his name was Victor Trevor.”

Obviously he decided John had seen enough for he chose that moment to slide the phone into one of his numerous jacket pockets. “Sibling enmity is a much more common occurrence than most people seem to believe. How’s Harry these days?”

“Just come to the point, Mycroft,” John growled. Staring at those photographs had resurrected his subliminal concerns for Sherlock’s mental health and Mycroft’s show of specious nonchalance only served to fuel these worries. He wished the car were outfitted with some high-whizz conversion technology that, at the press of a tiny button, would transform the vehicle into a helicopter that would fly them to Baker Street in a line as straight as the crow’s path, and without half of London’s motorised conveyances blocking their path.

“I was, John.” Mycroft’s mouth curled into the overbearing smile he reserved for those inane people trying his patience particularly hard. “You’ve talked with the brother. Do you believe Sherlock would have suffered such a person gladly at any stage in his life? The pomp and circumstance of an existence that circles around tradition and pride in the family name? Cambridge University’s predominant asset in Sherlock’s view was the fact it isn’t Oxford, which is my alma mater. Wickliffe – Victor – decided upon Oxford for the same fickle reason, saying he’d prefer to hitch his wagon to his own star. His character must have fitted Sherlock’s to a T. Fiercely independent, some would say, though I think obdurate a more fitting description. The father told me he only returned for two days the Christmas before his demise. Naturally, the brothers had fallen out much earlier, during their last school term, I believe.”

“Demise?” echoed John.

“I still don’t know how they first met. Perhaps Victor was less of a recluse than Sherlock,” Mycroft mused, ignoring John’s indirect request for enlightenment and choosing to gallop ahead along an independent route. “Once he’d calmed down enough Sherlock solved the puzzle of course, but for a short instant he must have imagined Victor had walked up the stairs with you. Naturally Sherlock never breathed a word about the affair to either our parents or myself. Not that he spoke much to any of us. We only found out after a call from the Slovenian embassy. Apparently Sherlock and another young man had hired a guide to explore some caves. All the embassy could tell me was that the young man was dead, Sherlock was in hospital and the guide was in prison. I boarded the first flight to Ljubljana. It turned out Victor’s father was seated two rows down from me. But we only discovered that later, of course.”

All traces of its habitual condescension had left Mycroft’s voice. He’d angled his upper body away from John and tightened his hands around his umbrella handle in what looked suspiciously like a toddler searching comfort from its favourite plush toy. His reflection in the car’s window was a study in grief. Since that first uncomfortable encounter in a non-descript warehouse John had caught brief glimpses of Mycroft’s true affection regarding Sherlock. For all his addiction to cloak and dagger staging the man was pitifully transparent when it came to his younger brother. In this Sherlock was much better at hoarding his secrets. At the mere mention of Mycroft’s name his expression would invariably sour, as if he’d bitten an unripe lemon.

“My initial relief at finding Sherlock unharmed soon turned to worry. Sherlock lay with his back to the room, refusing to speak, refusing to eat. Shock, the doctors said. A taciturn Sherlock was nothing new but this silence was and it frightened me. He just lay there with his eyes open and a single tear glistening on his cheek. All they could give me at the hotel was the check-in date. The luggage yielded no information when I searched it, even regarding the dead boy’s identity for the name in his passport differed from the one he’d used on various bills and receipts.”

“I don’t understand. You’re saying this Victor kept his real name hidden from Sherlock. From Sherlock Holmes, my flatmate, who can tell what that woman…” John pointed at a woman waiting for a traffic light they were gliding past, “… had for breakfast this morning and when she had her last pay rise. Go take someone else for a ride.”

Mycroft sighed. “You’re a good man, John, but sometimes I’m anxious for the state of the wiring between your brain and your eyes. Didn’t you look at those photographs, John? Really look. When I found them all the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. I realised what Sherlock had lost and, given Sherlock’s character, why he’d fallen back on the drugs. Never mind his righteous lectures about cocaine’s brainwork-improving propensities. Like any addict you’ll meet he first began shooting up in order to forget. My brother has a Byronic nature, had he lived in another age he would have been an alchemist. Victor was his philosopher’s stone. Friend, lover, the alpha to Sherlock’s omega, together they squared the circle. Why concern yourself... if your world consists of nothing but a counterpart like unto yourself.”

“Jesus, Mycroft.” Mycroft’s words tempted John to pinch his arm so he would wake up. It was inconceivable he was sitting here listening to the man John had dubbed ‘a computer in a ritzy suit’ explaining his flatmate, the most rational human being John had ever met, was a soppy poet at heart.

“The dead don’t speak either so I paid a visit to the guide instead. There I encountered Wickliffe’s father, who was working his way through the quagmire from the other end. We found the guide helpful enough. The Slovenian detention system leaves quite a few things to be desired. Apparently Sherlock and Victor had wished to explore a particular system of caves that have a subterranean river running through them. Victor convinced the guide of his experience, assuring the man he’d only have to look after Sherlock. The guide went first on the descent, followed by Sherlock and Victor at the back. Going up Sherlock and the guide switched places but Victor was the last man again. Thus they proceeded for four days. The guide swore there was nothing he could teach Victor and Sherlock adapted to the sport like a fledgling sparrow to the air. Victor’s father confirmed his son had spent much of his youth exploring the caves that riddle their land. On the fourth day however, as they were ascending again the guide heard a great splash and that was when he realised the rope connecting him to Victor had gone slack.” 

“What happened?”

“Sherlock went berserk for starters but I surmise that’s not the answer to your question. No one knows, John. The guide kept repeating the knots were sound, assuring Victor’s father over and over he always checked them. A post was set up at the point where the river emerges from the ground, a search party explored the cave but Victor’s body was never found. I confiscated the rope to have it examined by the realm’s best forensics experts but they found no proof it had been tampered with. Victor’s death is likely to remain the sole mystery my brother will never solve.”

John shook his head, unsure whether he did so in disbelief, or in a serious attempt at wrapping his mind around the fantastic narration. “Come on,” he said. “Here you’re telling me this man was the love of Sherlock’s life and Sherlock did nothing when he disappeared. Sherlock? Are you kidding me?”

“This boy, John,” corrected Mycroft. “They were twenty-two.”

“Still…”

“And you forget the guilt. Guilt renders even the most active mind impotent. What did it imply, this untampered rope? How could that knot have slipped so smoothly? Thankfully Victor’s father was reasonable throughout and agreed not to probe Sherlock for information he couldn’t supply anyway. We worked together to ensure the guide was acquitted and had his license restored. Robbing the man of his livelihood wouldn’t bring back Victor or help my brother. Back in England Sherlock appeared to be adapting until that fateful phone call from the dean. You can guess the rest.” Mycroft slackened his grip on the umbrella. “I’d prefer to skip the sordid details if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes,” John ventured hastily. What he’d heard, first from Iorwerth Leighmore and just now from Mycroft, sufficed for one harrowing afternoon.

At this reply Mycroft seemed to perk up considerably. No doubt his suit padding prevented the man’s shoulders from slumping but John would have sworn he saw them straightening and Mycroft’s shiny bespoke dress shoes (‘Oxford brogues’ Sherlock’s voice supplied unhelpfully) were planted firmer into the plush carpet lining the vehicle’s floor.

“Excellent. There’s no need for you to go into the details concerning Iorwerth’s visit either. Your task is to ensure Sherlock accepts the case.”

“How do you know…” Out of the millions of words he could have used at the beginning of a sentence John’s pick fell on the four guaranteed to sprout the most patronising smile in Mycroft’s repertoire.

“Not only will it provide my brother with a distraction but it will give him a chance at redemption. In helping Victor’s family he will be helping himself. Ah, here we are on Marylebone Road already. I suggest we take our leave here, John. There’s no need to flaunt our little conversation.”

“He’ll know about it anyway,” John said, defending his friend’s ability to dissect John’s whole day with just one look.

“Naturally,” Mycroft tutted, rapping the partition with his umbrella. “But you know how he loves the work. Anything for my dear brother.”

Out on the pavement John stood looking after the sedan until a city worker intent on his phone bumped into him and began hurling abuse at the world in general and John in particular. John shrugged and began the short trek to 221, grateful to Mycroft for the small time frame in which to order the jumble of thoughts tumbling through his head. By the time he inserted his key into the lock he’d determined his strategy, which would consist of ‘wait and see’.

“You’re home early,” came Sherlock’s greeting. He was lying in state on the sofa, fingers flying over his phone and a mug of cold tea on the coffee table. “What little brain Lestrade has seems to be deteriorating even faster than that of the average Creutzfeldt-Jakob patient. This was hardly a three.”

“Did Mrs Hudson tell you to help out Greg? You didn’t even move, did you?”

“What for?” Sherlock scoffed. “It was obvious the murderer was a dog-lover, Welsh springer spaniels in particular. Check the neighbourhood, simple process of elimination. If only Lestrade would listen to me and fire Anderson.”

“I take it that’s not for Greg to decide.” John emptied his jacket’s pockets of his phone and wallet before hanging the jacket on the hook and aiming for the kitchen. “Care for a cuppa?”

“And did you have an interesting talk with my annoying brother?” Sherlock called. Luckily John had already turned the corner so, unless Sherlock had acquired a pair of laser-eyes over the course of the day, he couldn’t observe the sudden stiffening of John’s gait.

“Tea or no?” he shouted back over the noise of filling the kettle.

“You heard me perfectly fine, John.” Possibly Sherlock had spent the day creating a private wormhole for all of a sudden he was looming over John, right in John’s personal space. “Did you find the tale enlightening, or merely amusing? Sentimental Sherlock, now there’s a catchy title for your blog.”

Life with his mercurial flatmate had taught John offence was Sherlock’s preferred mode of defence so he gently skimmed around his friend towards the fridge.

“I was shocked,” he replied. “And I feel sorry for you. It was a dreadful accident and I wish it had never happened.”

“Well, thank you, John,” Sherlock said, voice dripping with sarcasm and draping his right hand across his heart. “Your commiseration makes it feel so much better.” He pivoted on his heel and swanned out of the kitchen, dressing gown flaring dramatically.

“Look,” John told Sherlock’s back three minutes later, replacing the mug of stale tea with a fresh brew. “It’s what people say, all right? Of course it doesn’t help, it’s your loss, your grief, your sorrow. Now drink your tea.”

From his chair he watched, sipping his tea and munching another of Mrs Hudson’s rock cakes. As always it improved with age.

“Leighmore you said?” floated up at last from the sofa.

“Yes,” John confirmed. “Iorwerth Leighmore.”

Sherlock snorted and after scooting upright drew in his knees so he could rest his chin on top of them. “So that was Victor’s brother. Twin brother, obviously. I knew early on Victor Trevor was an alias, I’d have done the same if the Leighmores had been my family. How perfectly dreadful.”

Flabbergasted, John almost spurted his tea. “But Mycroft said…”

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. “You’d better spend your time reading ‘Who’s Who’ rather than that atrocious nonsense you insist on filling your head with. The length of the Viscount’s entry is a close second to that of some flimsy female novelist, a Barbara Cartland. No doubt you have partaken of her fare as well.”

“Not really,” John said. “I did have a girlfriend once who…”

“Spare me the details of your sex life,” Sherlock butted in, acute pain knitting his eyebrows together. “What did Leighmore want? You had lunch with him today.”

“How do you know…” John began his familiar chorus, automatically checking his cuffs and shirtfront for revealing stains.

“The receipt.” Sherlock pointed to the slip of paper protruding from John’s wallet on the coffee table. “Combined with the fact you didn’t finish your shift at the clinic and came in here smelling like an advertisement for the revolting eau de cologne Mycroft sprays himself with every morning in a vain effort at camouflaging his smelly feet.”

“Okay,” John said, deciding outward concession offered the best means to halting this verbal avalanche. “Yes, I invited Leighmore to lunch. I felt sorry for him and well… I’ll admit I was intrigued.”

“You must have been soooo disappointed.” Sherlock’s head wiggled comically on top of his knees, as if he was putting on a Punch and Judy show for John’s enjoyment.

“Well, yes,” John admitted, “but he never mentioned a brother and he’d obviously never seen you before. He only knew about you through the blog.” Sherlock’s eyes engaged in an elaborate study of the ceiling but John plodded on regardless. “We must go and help him, Sherlock. His father has gone missing and their butler is lying dead in the cellar. The man is beside himself with worry.”

“Obviously, only think of the family name.” Sherlock’s sneer could have cut granite. However he planted his feet on the floor and gestured for John to proceed.

“The Cuttleknowle Curse, eh?” he commented when John finished ten minutes later. “It only fits. No doubt they host a ghost as well. Which would it be, the Leighmore revenant, the Cuttleknowle wraith, or perhaps they sport a whole range.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” John replied in a peeved tone. “Iorwerth didn’t mention them.”

“Iorwerth?” Sherlock’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Best pals already, John? Was it nice, hobnobbing with the upper crust? I always reckoned snobbery to be Mycroft’s specialty.”

“That’s enough,” John said, putting down his cup a little more forcefully than he intended. Even his patience had its limits and any comparison with Mycroft meant Sherlock came dangerously close to crossing that line. “If you’ve solved the case from the comfort of our sofa I’ll be happy to text Iorwerth the outcome. If not, I’d like to text him we’ll be on the first train tomorrow. A murder and a kidnapping to boot. If it had been anyone else you’d be leaping about shouting Christmas had come early.”

“I don’t leap,” Sherlock huffed. “And we don’t know whether it was a kidnapping. You’re the one leaping ahead, John, as usual, to a possible explanation of some of the facts delivered by a probably unreliable witness.”

“Unreliable? The man’s own father is missing!”

“Statistics show most crimes are committed by either family or close acquaintances,” Sherlock declaimed, leaping to his feet at the chance of a discourse on the elemental components of the science of deduction. In his haste to place himself centre stage the tea mug was nearly swept from the coffee table by the swirling tail of his robe. “We haven’t spoken to the wife yet for a confirmation of his alibi. Besides, you say he was alone when he found the housekeeper – Knowles you said, what’s a Knowles doing in Cuttleknowle, that’s what I’d like to know – a job for forensics, not Anderson, thank God, but better not get our hopes up the Devon police force will supply us with someone who’s actually competent. And every witness is unreliable as a rule, John, even the honest, well-intentioned ones. People don’t know how to observe and their memory is misled by smells, sounds, the taste of the tea they had for breakfast.”

“Fine,” John amended. “So you’ll accept the case?”

“I’ve already accepted it. Come on, John, what are you waiting for? Here’s my credit card. You book us seats on the six o’ clock Great Western to Ivybridge while I go and dress. We’ll need to change trains at Plymouth but that can’t be helped.”

***

The minute they boarded the train Sherlock’s phone showed up in his hands and he dedicated his attention to the screen with the intensity of a hound chasing a hare. A ‘do not disturb’ sign hung around his neck wouldn’t have topped this means of conveying the message he wanted to be left alone. For all the airs and exhibition of ennui earlier that afternoon John comprehended yesterday’s rendezvous had left Sherlock badly shaken. Rather than commenting on boorish behaviour he stowed away their luggage and retired to the corridor to inform Iorwerth Sherlock had not only accepted the case but thrown himself into the investigation with his customary exuberant zeal.

“Thank heavens.” The other man’s voice was thick with relief. “Please accept my sincere thanks, John. I’ll send a car to collect you and will arrange a suite at the hotel for you. A family suite will serve, I suppose. They’re very nicely appointed with a living space and two bedrooms. Normally I would have stayed for your train but I’m exhausted so I’ll try and catch some sleep. I expect Mr Holmes will want to examine the tower straightaway.”

“Absolutely, yes,” John confirmed, only that moment realising he was probably in for a long night. At least he now knew he had a comfortable bed awaiting him at the end, whenever that might be. Thanks to the implicit assumption Sherlock and he wanted separate bedrooms John’s esteem for Iorwerth Leighmore had increased by a factor of twenty at least. Task completed John went in quest of the buffet car. As a mere three ingredients sufficed to prepare a half-decent cup of tea he reckoned the stuff couldn’t be much worse than the brew they served at St Bart’s canteen.

It certainly smelled better, almost like the real thing. The accompanying biscuits were an altogether different matter. His long trek back to their carriage afforded John plenty of time to wince on behalf of the manufacturer as he imagined Gordon Ramsey’s verdict on composition and presentation of what to John’s inexpert eyes looked like two pieces of cello-wrapped, highly toxic _Play-Doh_. Dreading the effects of what amounted to the equivalent of a sugar neutron bomb on Sherlock’s metabolism John chucked years of motherly admonition on irresponsible waste of precious food and the biscuits in the nearest bin. 

Sherlock accepted the paper cup with barely a glance, briefly unlocking his left hand from the mobile to wiggle his fingers imperiously and deposit the cup straight onto the window table.

“You’re welcome,” John emphasised but he may as well have addressed an empty seat for all the attention this garnered him. Mentally sighing John put his own tea next to Sherlock’s, searched his travel bag for his book and installed himself for a good two hours of uninterrupted reading.

However, after Leighmore’s real-life horror tale and Mycroft’s astonishing revelations regarding his brother’s past the master’s weird and macabre fantasies held little appeal and John caught himself staring openly at the lower half of his flatmate’s features peeking out from beneath the wild thatch of curls tumbling over his brow. Had he looked up from whatever he was doing when Victor brought him his tea? An unbidden image sprang up of a sleep-addled Sherlock lifting his head from his pillow and snaking a long naked arm from between sheets that smelled of sex and bodies closely entwined throughout the night’s long hours, lip’s corners lifting in that blinding smile John had first seen in a picture that afternoon. 

Running at Sherlock’s side inevitably meant running into people dazzled by the man’s extraordinary exterior rather than the extraordinary mind hidden behind the finely sculpted cheekbones and it fell to John to deal with the often ugly aftermath of those confrontations. Since that first meal at Angelo’s when Sherlock had brushed off his attempt at general conversation John had wondered occasionally whether there had been a time in Sherlock’s life when either (or both) of the sexes had been his area. The sniping at Buckingham Palace had chiefly muddied the already murky waters and during the subsequent showdown with The Woman John had felt like he was treading water in quicksand. Yet, whatever had occurred (was still occurring for all John knew) between Sherlock and Irene Adler, sex hadn’t come into it.

And now, contrary to Mycroft’s snooty smirk about sex alarming Sherlock, it turned out Sherlock did know about sex after all. Or had Victor served Sherlock in a different capacity and rendered those qualities then fortuitously rediscovered in Irene Adler? A corresponding wit and flexibility of mind, a zealous dedication to uncover the base truths behind people’s motivations? No, if such had been the case, John – for all that Sherlock stated John was as blind as a bat when it came to seeing what was right in front of his eyes – had been in their presence often enough to have glimpsed that smile saturated with the tender intimacy particular to lovers who had yet to tire of ceaselessly exploring those soul-twining bodily delights.

Something dark and ugly flared in John’s soul, emitting a green phosphorescent glow, weak at first but steadily increasing as he recalled the exchange he’d witnessed in those photographs he’d swiped through that afternoon. Despite their silence each picture had spoken loudly, declaring a single-minded affection that John, for all his practice across three continents, had never tasted. With each passing day the chances of John ever experiencing such fierce devotion decreased. As unobtrusively as possible, given that Sherlock noticed everything, John shot his flatmate a glance over the rim of his cup. Sherlock’s fingers flew furiously over his mobile’s screen while he muttered something under his breath. Love, obviously, couldn’t have been farther from the man’s mind. And yet… The green flame shot up high again.

Of course! That was it. At last John had solved part of the Palace squabble. Oh, this was cracking. John’s nose almost drowned in his tea from trying to hide his grin. Mycroft’s childish remarks were easily explained by that most primitive of emotions, despicable envy. Only imagine, high and mighty Mycroft Holmes begrudging his little brother’s love affair. It was too good to be true. Next time they met…

What that happy occasion would reveal John was unlikely to discover for Sherlock chose that moment to raise his gaze from his phone and settle it on John, who promptly choked on his tea.

“Care to share the lark?” Sherlock enquired innocently.

“What? No. What lark?” spluttered John, dabbing a paper handkerchief futilely at his mouth and the spray stains spoiling his jumper.

“Good. That’s good,” replied Sherlock. “It was a long time ago, John. I was a different person then.”

“Yes, yes, you made yourself,” John retorted. That jumper was brand-new, damn it, and several women – the fit new waitress at Speedy’s John was seriously considering asking for a date amongst them – had commented how well the light blue colour (“periwinkle” according to Sherlock) complemented his eyes. He fervently prayed Mrs Hudson kept another Big Bad Dom in her closet, one specialised in obliterating stains. Oblivious.

***

At Ivybridge station Sherlock made a beeline for an unobtrusive black car in the car park’s farthest corner, leaving it to John to struggle with their travel bags. At Plymouth John had already learned Sherlock’s was conspicuously heavy and he’d speculated whether the consulting detective had decided to bring along his chemistry kit.

When he arrived at the car – which, on closer observation, turned out to be a _Jaguar_ , so much for unobtrusive – Sherlock had already taken possession of the back seat, limiting John’s options to the front passenger seat. How Sherlock had known this was the vehicle sent down to meet them was another mystery. True, at this time of the evening the car park wasn’t exactly brimming with traffic but there were some cars – slotted as close to the station as allowed – and people milling about and a flashy Bentley wheeled past them just when their chauffeur strode forward to greet John and relieve him of their luggage.

Thankfully it turned out the driver might as well have been one of Mycroft’s minions. Wordlessly he guided the car along the narrow lanes that rose and fell between high emerald hedgerows down which the blossoming dog-rose and honeysuckle tumbled white and frothy like the lace of ancient bridal veils. The tops afforded John a brief glimpse of the landscape, glimmering beneath the sun’s dying rays, which attempted to ward off the mounting shadows in vain. A few times John spotted an inky blue on the horizon. That, he reckoned, must be the ocean.

The silence suited John perfectly fine for it gave him a chance to sift through Sherlock’s possible reactions upon the imminent encounter with his dead lover’s twin sibling. Through the occasional glance in the rear-view mirror he tried to gauge Sherlock’s mood but the twilight’s diffuse shimmer hampered a proper scrutiny of the man’s face. Hidden in the quickly descending darkness it shone as palely austere and inscrutable as a venerated bust of some primeval sorcerer prince.

After half an hour’s drive John caught sight of a Draconian bulk, domineering the otherwise empty landscape, grimly outlined against a sky the colour of Burgundy wine. A thick forest of crenelated turrets rose from the top like so many fingers raking desperately at the surrounding void in a last abortive effort before being swallowed permanently in the gaping abyss opening up beneath the building. John shivered. It was an image straight out of Lovecraft’s gloomiest, most chilling fantasies.

“That’s the hotel,” the chauffeur spoke up. “Mr Leighmore asked to meet you at the turret. That’s another ten miles. I will deliver your luggage at the hotel after I’ve dropped you off.”

“Fine.” John swallowed. The prospect of spending a night under that roof seemed a lot less appealing than it had five minutes ago. In the back seat Sherlock kept mum. For all John knew he may have fallen asleep.

Darkness had descended completely by the time they arrived at the tower. A single lantern blinked next to its door as a stark echo of its cousins twinkling like so many diamonds strewn over a great shroud of the most luxurious black velvet.

Iorwerth stepped forth from the blackness into the well of light, which struck gold from the locks of hair falling over his forehead. Upon opening the car door John was struck by the towering silence encompassing them. It swallowed the sound of the driver opening the back door for Sherlock.

“Welcome, John. And thank you.” Iorwerth shook John’s hand warmly. “Thank you, Noyes,” he called out to the chauffeur over John’s shoulder before spinning to greet Sherlock. “Mr Holmes, my sincere apologies again for the distress I caused you.”

Sherlock’s expression remained aloof and immobile as he slotted his hand around Iorwerth’s. “It’s fine,” he said in a business-like voice. “Let’s have a look at the crime scene.” 

“Of course,” answered Iorwerth, and lowered his gaze to where John noticed Sherlock was still grasping the other man’s hand. “If you’d be so kind…”

Immediately, Sherlock let go. For an instant John could have sworn the look that flared in his friend’s eyes was identical to the one that had twisted his face two days ago and he wondered at the wisdom of Mycroft’s advice. The next moment one of Sherlock’s flagrantly insincere smiles swept over his features. “The crime scene,” he repeated, thus ensuring it was their host who ended up embarrassed and stuttering an apology while producing an old-fashioned iron key and pivoting to the door.

As he turned the key and swivelled the heavy door knob a cry of surprise escaped his lips.

“What is it?” Sherlock was at the man’s side in one stride. 

“I… I don’t understand,” stammered Iorwerth, staring at the door and the key protruding from the lock. “It’s open, the door is open and I’m certain I locked it when I left…”

“Are you?” asked John. “You told me you ran, remember?”

“Yes,” Iorwerth confirmed hazily. “I ran, but not without locking the door first.”

“Interesting.” Sherlock shouldered his way between them, torch in one hand and miniature magnifier in the other. Armed with these essentials of his craft he stooped for a close scrutiny of the lock and the glossy paint on the surrounding wooden panel. “How many copies does this key have?”

“Just two. One for me and one for my father.”

Sherlock straightened. “The lock wasn’t tampered with, which leaves us three options. Despite your protestations to the contrary you forgot to lock the door, someone came here after you left using your father’s key or someone came and used a copy you and your father didn’t know about.”

“But that…”

“… is not our main concern,” Sherlock ended the sentence. “Shall we have a look inside?” With these words he threw open the door and felt for the light switch. A sudden blast of yellow left John dazed for a good few seconds.

Able to focus again he shuffled after Sherlock and Iorwerth, who’d already crossed the threshold. Sherlock was twirling on his heels, coat flaring imperiously and his gaze sweeping over the objects that cluttered the circular room. If this was only the hallway John’s mind boggled at what the rest of the building’s interior must look like. The rug covering the flagstone floor and the tapestries adorning the walls outdid the draperies at Buckingham Palace for sheer ostentation. John’s mouth fell open as his mind grasped the story the wall hangings depicted.

“One of my forebears was strangely proud of this aspect of our heritage,” Iorwerth’s desolate voice murmured close to his ear. “And my father dreaded these as much as he was fascinated by them. I was so relieved when he said he’d hang them here. They’re worth a fortune but I can’t stand the sight of those things.”

“Yes,” John agreed wholeheartedly. Everything about the tapestries made his stomach churn, from the dismal glimmer and wan colouring of the silk to the rows of dreadful scenes outlined from top to bottom. Hordes of creatures straight out of some hellish medieval fantasy, with a squid-like body but running on two human legs, pilfered and laid waste to a flock of villages and their inhabitants, dangling children by their legs and consuming them and raping both men and women with scaly tentacles. Though revolted John had trouble dragging his eyes away from these silken atrocities. He heaved a silent sigh of relief when he managed to divert his attention to the familiar sight of Sherlock on his knees, seemingly attempting to drill a hole in the granite floor slabs with his forehead.

“Size nine, new Nikes,” John heard him mutter. The next instant he was back on his feet. “That the cellar door?” Sherlock pointed at something behind John’s back. 

Iorwerth nodded. “I’m not going down there again,” he said in a tremulous tone. “I’ll wait for you upstairs, in my father’s study.”

“Suit yourself.” Sherlock shrugged, his indifference regarding Iorwerth’s whereabouts obvious to even the most vacuous observer. John winced on their client’s behalf. The man himself cast Sherlock a bewildered look. Well, at least that was a common enough occurrence.

“The light doesn’t work,” John cautioned.

“So you said.” Sherlock shot John an abrasive glance over his shoulder as he whisked open the door only to clamp his hand over his mouth and nose immediately after.

“Christ,” they declared in unison at the tremendous stink that emerged from the basement like some living monster. The smell was every bit as horrific as Iorwerth had described with two extra days of decay thrown in for good measure. For a dizzying second John was reminded of the case of the Stratford vampire, in particular the skip full of dismembered male prostitutes they’d discovered behind the Olympic stadium. Bad as that had been, this stench was much worse. John groped for a handkerchief. Sherlock’s was already bound around his face as he inspected the light switch next to the door with the aid of his torch. 

“There.” He gestured. “Cable is cut.”

“Can you fix it?”

“Probably. But the fuse box will be in the basement anyway. The torch is still missing as well. Brought your own?”

“Of course.”

Following Sherlock’s example and wrapping his nostrils and mouth with his handkerchief John fished his Maglite out of his pocket and started descending the stairs after Sherlock. With each step deeper into the chamber the stench increased twofold. Compared to this reek the smell that had filled John’s nostrils on the afternoons he sweated away in the operation tent simmering under the midday Afghan while he tended a newly flown in batch of mortally wounded soldiers seemed like a pleasurable stroll through Kew’s hothouses. Dread at the sight he would meet once they hit bottom filled John’s heart and here he was a battle-hardened soldier.

“It’s empty.” Sherlock’s voice floated up to him. “The floor looks dry – you mentioned puddles – and there’s no body save for this…” His torch beam flitted haphazardly over the walls, the uneven floor hewn straight out of the rocks and the ceiling bricks. “…pile of...” Here he gently prodded at an indefinite heap in a corner. “…tentacles?” he ended.

“What?” John nearly did a backward somersault. Was he really about to enter a nightmare compared to which ‘The Shadow over Innsmouth’ read like the abridged version of Beatrix Potter’s complete works?

“Someone with an odd sense of humour,” Sherlock continued, removing his glove. “Or another adept of that nonsense you’ve taken to reading lately.” Before John had a chance to utter a warning his naked finger jabbed at the topmost offering on the slimy heap of cut off squid limbs that glistened ominously in the all-encompassing darkness. 

“Hmm.” Sherlock uncurled and waved his torch in the general direction of the mass, which appeared to writhe as the light glanced over the contortions. “Care to feel for yourself?” he invited.

“Not really, no,” John declined the offer.

“Yes, I forgot. You’re not a great lover of seafood. Victor was. Smoked salmon was his favourite.” The last two lines were relayed in a strangely flat tone that raised goose pimples on John’s arms.

“Look, perhaps we should go upstairs,” he suggested.

“What for?” Sherlock’s tone was almost one of insult. “Your worrying is pointless. I’m not such a spineless wimp as my vacuous brother, John. Now let’s find this ridiculous curse of yours.”

“Of mine, yeah,” John muttered under his breath after Sherlock’s retreating footsteps. Still, he supposed Sherlock’s air of conceit indicated his friend wasn’t on the brink of a mental breakdown so he should really count his blessings. Here they were in a dark cellar minus one human body they’d expected to find and plus a stack of hacked-off tentacles shortly after Sherlock’s encounter with what he’d imagined to be the ghost of his dead lover. All things considered John reasoned Sherlock was doing an excellent job at hanging on by his fingernails.

“Come on, John,” commanded his friend’s stern baritone. “I’ve found it.”

Wrestling down the sudden trepidation rising in his throat John hurried in the direction of Sherlock’s voice, travelling by the light of his torch.

“Look.” Sherlock’s silhouette halved the circle of light projected onto the wall in front of him. There, in letters the colour of blood, words were slashed in angry brush strokes.

 _Hoard thy gold, thou devil’s spawn_  
_High and well he points at Hallowtide_  
_God against thee and in thy face_  
_Left ten and ten right_  
_One step for each of the years our Saviour liveth_  
_Get thee to Hell_  
_And may a death of woe be yours_  
_Five times five and under_  
_May Heaven’s gilt strike thee blind_  
_Evil and sorrow to thee and thine!_

“Impressive, eh?” Sherlock commented, voice dripping with scorn.

“But… What does it mean?” John asked.

“Exactly. There’s only one person I know of who can tell us. Let’s go and find him.” For all his declarations with regard to leaping Sherlock was already bouncing up the cellar stairs. John cast the writing on the wall a last glance. It was nothing but primitive gibberish and nonsense, obviously, but still the fear he’d been wrestling successfully before ramped up its resources and threatened to overwhelm him. He backed away from the words, never letting them escape from his torch’s beam until he reached the safety of the stairs and the torrent of friendly yolk-coloured light flooding in from the hallway.

***

Upstairs, turning from closing the door to a circular room that would have served the Queen herself very neatly for a study, John caught Iorwerth Leighmore cowering behind an ornamental desk with Sherlock looming across its expansive width, knuckles planted determinedly into the blotter’s thick leather sides.

“You’re useless,” he was informing their client. “At least show me what your father was working on…”

“Working?” Iorwerth piped up like a little boy.

“Working, yes. Don’t tell me you actually bought this ersatz drivel about the children’s noise bothering him. Ever heard of ‘Who’s Who’? If one’s to believe your father’s boasts the Leighmore Keep easily outdoes Windsor Castle for its number of rooms.”

Wide eyes the colour of bruised violets sought John’s in despair. From the set of Sherlock’s shoulders inside the Belstaff John detected the consulting detective had perceived the shift in his temporary detainee’s attention. Deliberately and with great dignity he unfolded the elongated curve of his body. 

“That your laptop?” He pointed and confiscated the device with a great sweep of an impossibly long arm. “Must be. Brand new _Stealth Macbook Pro_. Bit above the average servant’s budget and your father obviously considers the _Waterman_ safety pen the scintillating pinnacle of modern technology. Knowles’ application is in here, yes? Perhaps that woman knows more about your father than you do. John, why don’t you help our client brew some fortifying tea in that little kitchen annexe behind your back. He looks like he could use some.”

“That computer is password protected.” This feeble protest solicited a glare of such withering contempt John was amazed the man had the strength to stagger from his chair into the direction Sherlock had indicated.

“Cut it out, will you?” he hissed at his flatmate. All he got in response was an irritated huff and an increased pacing of the finger swiping the computer’s track pad. Unsurprisingly, the screen displayed a wide array of opened folders. On their client’s behalf John sent up a quick prayer for mercy to the gods of technology (Athena probably, so goddess) that any embarrassing browsing history had been irretrievably wiped. 

“What happened to Knowles? She was dead, I’m certain of it. And why is Mr Holmes so impolite?” Iorwerth complained in the small, fully equipped pantry that was indeed fitted behind a laboriously constructed panelled wall. 

“I don’t know,” John answered the first question. “And Sherlock thinks manners a waste of time,” he explained while filling the kettle. The simple, everyday action helped him to sort his feelings and impressions and he understood why Sherlock had banished the two of them to this semi-private corner.

“This kind of behaviour is actually a good thing,” he explained. “You’re in trouble when he starts treating you nicely. Ask Lestrade. And of course he sees your brother every time he looks at you.”

“My brother? Who do you…? Wickliffe? But you said Mr Holmes was educated at Cambridge.” A high flush suffused Iorwerth’s cheekbones and dyed his irises a deep sapphire. “I would know if he’d gone to Harrow. And my brother died in an accident at a very young age.”

“Yes. While holidaying with a friend in Slovenia.”

Comprehension narrowed the other man’s eyes and his hand flew up to stifle the anxious noise threatening to spill from his lips. “Heavens,” he moaned, anchoring his free hand to the tiny worktop for support. Agony distorted the handsome face and sweat ran from his brow. John ran some water into a glass, which Iorwerth accepted with trembling fingers.

“Please.” The sound of his normally melodious voice now grated in John’s ears. “My brother and I… We were close once, inseparable, but we had the most dreadful row when we were seventeen and after – we must have broken our dear mother’s heart. I never forgave Wickliffe for what I considered his betrayal of everything… everything our family signified, our name, our honour, the import of the role we’ve played in these parts for centuries. I remember, when my father told me what had happened, that Wickliffe had disappeared and was most likely dead, I didn’t feel anything. There was this… this emptiness inside me and I supposed that was where Wickliffe lived when we were children. A part of me had hoped for reconciliation… sometime… and suddenly I had to accept that would never happen. If only. That expression is easily the ficklest and most repeated in the English language. And now…” Gaze slanting to the wall from behind which came the quick tap tap of computer keys Iorwerth enquired in a calmer tone, “Were they, you know, were they _special_ friends?”

“Sherlock’s brother thinks so, yes.”

Slowly, Iorwerth shook his head. “Poor fellow,” he muttered. “To have me materialising like a bolt from the blue in his own living room. Wickliffe always was the stronger-minded of the two of us so the chances of him mentioning me are less than nil. Small wonder Mr Holmes looked as if he’d seen a ghost. If only I’d…”

“Well, you just said those words were fickle,” John reminded his host. Thankfully, the water reached boiling point at that moment. “Where does your father keep the tea?”

“I don’t know,” Iorwerth replied. “Knowles prepares my father his tea.”

 _Typical_ , John really tried but failed not to think. Searching the most conspicuous spot (cupboard above the kettle) he did indeed find a tin of loose tea and started concocting a pot. He nearly dropped the tin at the noise of a triumphant “Hah, I knew it” exploding in the room. Hastily, he put it down and ended up at his friend’s side in but three – rather terrific in his honest opinion – leaps.

“Checking backgrounds. Isn’t that what people do when they hire their servants?” Sherlock accosted their client, fingertip rapping insistently on the screen.

“She came with excellent references from various illustrious families abroad,” contended Iorwerth. 

“Which you are obviously personally acquainted with,” Sherlock scoffed.

“Not as such, no. But I did ring and…”

“Did you also contact the Lord Chancellor for his opinion?” Sherlock interrupted with his usual tact. 

“Heavens, no. Why would I…” The astonished look on Iorwerth’s face was all too familiar. John sighed mentally and considered uttering some kind of warning noise but Sherlock was going at it hammer and tongs.

“Because prior to her current employment Miss Alicia Knowles, aka Annie Harrison, enjoyed Her Majesty’s hospitality for almost fifteen years,” he announced. “Fourteen years, eleven months and five days to be precise.”

“You’d better sit down.” John took Iorwerth’s arm and guided him to a chair. The man looked like he was about to collapse.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered. “What you’re saying is impossible. Knowles is – was a jewel, well-mannered, deferential. And she’s young, in her early thirties.”

“Oh, she started young, at twelve.” Sherlock rebuffed the objection with his right hand’s customary dismissive wave. Upfront appreciation of another mind’s ingenuity sparkled mischievously in the corners of his lips. John watched the upward tug with rising unease for it evoked memories of a past confrontation that had almost cost them their lives. Which meant – he realised – Sherlock was outrageously enjoying himself.

And so it proved. “A textbook example of psychopathy,” he lectured, thoughtfully spinning the laptop so John and Iorwerth could scrutinise Miss Harrison’s personal medical file at leisure. In order to retrieve it Sherlock must have hacked into yet another highly secured government database. Rather than admiring Sherlock’s handicraft John facepalmed and let a groan escape from the deep cavern where he kept his exasperation with the consulting detective’s antics under lock and key. 

Oblivious, Sherlock zoomed on. “IQ ranging between one hundred and thirty five and a hundred forty – very high, very impressive – but an almost total lack of morality and empathy. Father worked in the Lady Windsor Colliery in Ynysybwl until its closure. The usual tale of drink and dissolution unfolded, not pretty, and ended three years later. Gas leak, it was decreed. Orphan Annie was whisked up North to lodge with an aunt she’d never laid eyes on before. Sadly, the acquaintance didn’t last long. Basement stairs.”

“Yes, we get the picture,” John said, more on Leighmore’s behalf than his own. Life with Sherlock meant John was mostly inured against these lugubrious treatises on unpleasant personalities. But it seemed their client’s idea of entertainment didn’t consist of swapping biographies of hardened criminals over a cuppa. Horror and acute wretchedness had joined forces to twist his face into a study of agony. “How about you skip the gory details. Leave them for the blog post.”

For a second Sherlock’s face took on an affronted expression to be replaced by – baffled but present nevertheless – understanding.

“I see. Well. She put her confinement to better use than most. Mastered five languages, six actually, considering the fact she didn’t exactly speak the Queen’s English when she first entered the system. First dan in Taekwondo, astonishing really. Doctorates in both fiscal law and computer engineering. Pungent little detail, that, couldn’t be bothered to erase this very useful piece of information even though it would have taken her less than five minutes, given the frankly appalling lack of any serious attempt at screening this sensitive material from the general public’s natural curiosity.”

It was clear he’d lost Iorwerth Leighmore’s concentration somewhere along his convoluted route. “Most enlightening, I’m sure. But pray, what does this mean for my father?” the man cried.

“All in due time,” Sherlock snapped. “Knowles – Harrison – entered your employ and ingratiated herself with your father for a reason. Think of the primary motivators in most people’s lives, psychopaths being transparently dull and no exception to the rule. Power, sex and money. We can delete the first: for all his aspirations your father isn’t exactly a key figure in government or the nation’s main industries. I confess I’m no expert as regards to sex, that’s John’s department, but there’s a gap of nearly forty years between your father and Harrison and that can’t have been very stimulating for the younger party without the added zest of the first ingredient. Which leaves us number three, money. Now this so-called family curse of yours. Please be so kind as to repeat its first line for me.”

“But… but why?” Iorwerth’s brow was flickering like an aeroplane’s dashboard preparing for a crash landing, emotions zipping by at such speed John almost got dizzy just by looking at the man. “It’s patent nonsense.”

“Please.” Sherlock supplemented the request with one of his fearsome ‘normal person’ smiles.

“Hoard thy gold, thou devil’s spawn,” whispered Iorwerth, hands locked between his knees like a small boy reciting a lesson for his tutor. Heaving a deep breath he added at a normal level, “Nonsense, like I said. There’s no gold, just the land. Which we would have lost if it weren’t for the hotel.”

“And yet this woman, this woman who’s smarter than ninety eight point three percent of the population thought there must be something to the story. Whoever designed this so-called curse was well aware of the trappings of the average mind. You let it become embroiled by all the archaic jinxes and frivolous hoodoo. Delete those and what remains is a verbal rundown on the location of this gold your family is supposed to be hoarding.”

“What?” John and Iorwerth exclaimed in unison. Sherlock’s eyeroll, predictably, took some time to negotiate the ceiling. Its aspect, when it landed upon John and their client again, bordered on frustration with the world at large and his companions in particular. John foresaw a massive tantrum but luckily the consulting detective’s professionalism intervened. 

Instead, he primly crossed his legs and intoned in a bored voice, “High and well he points at Hallowtide. Left ten and ten right. One step for each of the years our Saviour liveth. Five times five and under. May Heaven’s gilt strike thee blind. Doesn’t sound like rocket science to me.”

“Chinese arithmetic, more likely,” rejoined John, more for the hell of it, for he silently allowed Sherlock’s supposition actually made a lot of sense. “Except this riddle of yours doesn’t give the coordinates for the starting point.”

“But if you say Knowles sought us out for such a purpose, how did she even know about the curse?” Leighmore was following his own line of thoughts and providing Sherlock with the perfect opportunity to mingle pedantry and scorn into a bitter soup of mortification spooned warm between Leighmore’s half-parted pretty lips.

“Your father’s grandiosity led her here,” Sherlock replied magisterially, leaping out of his chair and flinging himself towards the rows of bookcases that circled half of the room. His finger danced along the backs of several thick volumes before drawing to a sudden halt. Leafing through the book Sherlock spun on his heel to elucidate, “Imagine yourself languishing in a prison cell. Nothing to do but stare at grey walls twenty-four hours a day, day after day, year after year. Oh, the…” He scrunched his eyes shut, teetering on the brink of insufferable pain. “…tediousness. You’d do anything to fight the boredom, read every book in the library, no matter how dull or laborious. Or amusing. My brother isn’t the only person suffering from a superiority complex. There’s a whole industry catering to supercilious nitwits and your father was only too happy to oblige, throwing in the ‘ancient family curse’ for good measure to multiply the distinction of his entry.” 

These last words were accompanied by a dramatic shove of the book under Iorwerth’s nose. John facepalmed again, certain he already knew the title and vacillating between chagrin on Iorwerth’s behalf and admiration for his friend’s genius. As ever, when Sherlock explained his reasoning, it all sounded so logical and the world did seem made up of nothing but idiots.

Still, he was unprepared for gentle deferential Iorwerth Leighmore springing from his seat in an unexpected display of agility to aim a punch straight into Sherlock’s solar plexus. From the look of it he was a crack boxer for Sherlock crumpled in a most convincing manner and the motions of his jaws indicated he was rendered speechless for a good ten seconds at the minimum. 

“What’s wrong with you?” Iorwerth screamed, spittle flying most unbecomingly from his mouth, while his gaze flicked unbelievingly between his fist and the decked detective. “My father is a good and kind man. He doesn’t deserve such derision. I don’t know what Wickliffe told you about us but it’s all lies – vile, vile lies. Now, I asked you to find my father and the murderer of our housekeeper. Do it and get out of our lives!”

He threw Sherlock a last challenging look and flounced from the room in authentic Holmesian fashion, throwing the door shut behind him with such force the ancient building appeared to shake on its foundations. 

John felt like applauding what had been a magnificent performance. On second thought, considering a murderous psychopath might be roaming the premises, he decided on a dash for the door.

“Leave him,” Sherlock wheezed, apparently having regained some momentum. “We’re better off without him.”

“Surely. But we don’t want another body on our hands, do we?”

“What body?” scoffed Sherlock, testing whether it was safe to unfold his own again. “I haven’t seen any so far, despite your promises. Harrison won’t go after him. It’s the father that held the key to the riddle.”

Outside a car started and when John looked out of the window he saw the white pool of the headlights winding its way up the crest they’d descended earlier that evening, chased by the taillights’ fiery red. The vehicle’s controlled assent reinstated a sense of normalcy and served to squelch the lingering traces of uneasiness John felt. Time to try and pummel some sensitivity into his best friend then.

“Charming. Well done,” he complimented. “You just goaded a bloke that’s even meeker than Molly Hooper into clobbering you.”

“Who,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“A bloke who. And good riddance anyway. His prosaic questions were stifling.” He adjusted the button of his jacket and resettled his attention on the bookcase, moving with rather less than his usual grace. “We need to find old maps of the estate, John. Anything that can tell us where to find a well. Our search starts and ends there. It’s unlikely Harrison didn’t kill the Viscount but her file indicates she developed a taste for making her victims suffer, in one case for days on end. If we’re fast we may be just in time to save the man.”

“You’re dodging the question,” John said as he joined Sherlock. “I mean, that was crass, even for you. Is it… did Wickliffe…” He stopped, suddenly not daring to pursue this line of enquiry.

At first, Sherlock seemed so invested in his investigation John suspected he hadn’t caught John’s words. Then he repeated, “Wickliffe? Who the… oh, Victor.” His questing fingertips halted while he pondered the implications of John’s question, and, having found it galloped on over the bindings. 

“Mycroft and I are more alike than Victor and that man ever were,” he said. “Victor never mentioned his family. For him, they simply didn’t exist. I agreed with him on principle. Having met the brother I understand him even better.”

“Do you?” John muttered under his breath. Pretending to drag his gaze along the ancient volumes whose musty leather made him want to sneeze he tried to stealthily observe one of the most observant men of his acquaintance (as ever, it was difficult to skip Mycroft). In all probability he was failing at the job for Sherlock huffed and turned his back. Well, they were on a case and the sooner it was solved the sooner they’d be back at Baker Street. Once there, John would be firmer.

A happy noise made him pivot. Sherlock had opened the desk’s left door and was wheeling out an art bin. Lodged inside a plastic sleeve was a drawing that John recognised as a primitive map.

“Wow,” he whistled.

“Behold a part of the puzzle,” Sherlock smiled, rubbing his hands together in glee. That galvanic elation John often felt when presented with another example of Sherlock’s genius coursed through his veins as he lifted the sleeve from the bin, only to reveal another map.

“There’s more,” he spluttered, exhilaration sluicing away as fast as it had risen.

“Obviously.” Sherlock remained unfazed. “An estate as old as this, and with such dreary owners, there’s bound to be piles.”

“But…” John began, realising full well he was letting himself in for a snide remark, but really, if his detail had chosen to drop him in the middle of the Afghan desert without a map or compass he would have felt less at sea.

And yes, here it came. “Why does everyone prove to be a moron in the end, even you, John,” Sherlock groaned, shaking his head in despair. 

“ ‘Cause you’re such a bleeding brainbox,” countered John, annoyed despite the mental preparation. “Now, come on, show off for me, that’s what you like best.” 

Sherlock’s shoulders assumed their most hoity-toity stance but he refrained from comment so John congratulated himself on evening the score. 

“Contrary to your belief the words provide us with an accurate indication of our starting point,” Sherlock commenced. “High and well he points at Hallowtide. That’s already quite precise. Hallowtide encompasses three days, but the second day, All Saints’ Day, is the most important one so let’s assume we need to start our search that day.”

“That’s months away,” John cried.

“Thanks to the wonders of the internet we won’t have to wait that long. Now who points high and well? Something that doesn’t move for it has to be in the exact same place each year for the formula to be correct. A building, a rock, a tree? Could be anything. That’s where the ‘well’ comes in. It isn’t as if the author of these lines was as interested in keeping to the iambic pentameter as the Bard himself so why the addition? Because it actually refers to the thing itself, a well. So we need to find a well with something high standing beside it. Something that had already been there a long time when this brief was composed.”

No matter how many entries John would add to his blog he would never cease to marvel at Sherlock’s sheer genius. Once again his quick mind had unravelled a poser that would have left John stumped for days on end, if he’d ever had the wherewithal to recognise it as such.

“Fantastic,” he exclaimed. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Sherlock forewent the habitual reply for a dig at the Leighmore family. “You first read those words an hour ago. They had centuries to solve it,” he said.

“Let’s solve it then,” urged John, grabbing the top map, “and keep our fingers crossed the Viscount is still alive.”

Between them they divided the maps into two stacks and set to poring over them. At first the colours and lovingly drawn details snatched John’s eye and tempted him into lingering to admire the artist’s clever handiwork. Also, the fact that he was essentially buzzing over an endless repetition of the same terrain blurred his vision. In the end he sketched a tiny map pointing out the relevant details he was looking for. Three maps down and he’d located the place.

“Here.” He pointed at a position slightly to the northwest of the Cuttleknowle Turret. “A draw-well and a yew tree.”

“A yew tree?” This information excited Sherlock greatly. “The yew is one of Europe’s oldest sacred trees. They can reach a tremendous age, easily spanning centuries. That’s it, John. That must be it.”

“And we never saw it arriving here because it was already dark and we arrived from the southeast,” John filled in.

“Exactly.” Sherlock was scrolling his phone. “A full-grown tree ranges between thirty-three and sixty-six feet in height,” he said. “Hmmm, that’s despicably imprecise and it’s too dark now to try and measure its height. If the tree is still there. For all we know it might not even exist any longer.” 

Fingers tented in front of his mouth he assumed his deep-thinking mode, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m not going to be bested by a woman a second time,” John heard him mutter. “What did she see that I don’t?”

As quietly as possible John began re-arranging the maps in the bin, openly enjoying their craftsmanship now his part of the work was done. Irresistibly, in each map his gaze sought out the tower and the draw-well lying above it. The yew, he noted, first appeared on a map dated 1485. He was holding a map drawn in 1694 when his eye fell on a tiny scribble beneath the tree. 

“Sherlock,” he called in a thrilled voice. 

The consulting detective scooted to his side in a mighty leap and peered over John’s shoulder, magnifying glass at the ready. “John!” Pure exultation poured from Sherlock’s face. “You’ve found it. One day I’ll make a detective of you yet. Unlike Anderson you’ve already mastered one of the most important hallmarks of the trade, dogged determination.”

Given Sherlock’s utter contempt for the forensic expert John didn’t know whether the comparison mortified or gratified him. Sherlock’s beaming expression indicated the latter so John straightened his shoulders and gestured towards the door.

“Well, the game is on. What are we waiting for?”

Sherlock threw him a manic grin. “What indeed?”

A cold draught ghosted past them on the stairs. Down in the hallway both the cellar door and the front door were wide open. 

“That’s strange,” said John. “I’m sure I closed that door before going upstairs.”

“Hmmpf,” Sherlock harrumphed, his posture indicating he wished John would knock off these distractions and cut to the chase instead. The next instant he skidded to a halt and fell on his knees. “John,” he grated.

John hurried to Sherlock’s side. Initially he didn’t see what had caught Sherlock’s attention but then he noted the slight discoloration in the rug’s bluish waves. It was a liquid stain, still wet to the touch. 

“That wasn’t there when we entered this building,” Sherlock asserted, nose glued to the spot and sniffing loudly, rounding off the procedure with a lick at the carpet. “Brackish, like the Thames at Gravesend,” he declared, which caused John to wonder whether Sherlock had ever run an experiment that consisted of smelling and tasting two hundred and forty-three samples of Thames water. 

“The basement,” Sherlock decided, launching himself at the darkly gaping hole. “Come on, John.”

At the bottom of the stairs John halted to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. 

“Take care,” Sherlock cautioned. “There are puddles everywhere.” And then John’s heart leapt into his throat as his ears flooded with the squelching sound of something wet and heavy being hauled along the floor that came floating from the far end of the cellar. Something slimy brushed his mouth and John fought his attacker, determined to have no half-finished cuttlefish mutant dragging him to hell. Adrenaline lent him Herculean powers as he hacked at the tentacles that were smothering him.

“John. What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sherlock’s voice, sounding extremely pissed off, interrupted, just as John floored his opponent with an uppercut to the jaw.

“There’s…” John had trouble drawing the dank air into his lungs. “Somebody…” he managed.

“Yes, there’s a man’s body further down,” Sherlock said. “It certainly wasn’t there last time we were here so a little peace and quiet would be marvellous right now. Remember there’s a psychopath nearby.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, but didn’t you hear...” John started to ask. Then Sherlock’s announcement pushed all thoughts of his supernatural struggle from his mind. That body was all too real. With Sherlock’s presence close John wondered whether the episode wasn’t the product of an overwrought imagination. “Whose body?” he asked, clamping his hand over his mouth in sudden trepidation. “Iorwerth?”

“No.” Sherlock’s tone was almost peevish, as if Iorwerth’s death would have been preferable to that of the man currently laid out at his feet. “Nor the Viscount by the look of it, too young. Might be an accomplice.” Sherlock hunched over the body, peering into the man’s mouth, checking his nails by the light of his torch and laying two fingers against the man’s neck. The cause of death became apparent when the light travelled over the corpse’s chest. “Still warm,” Sherlock said. “Definitely an accomplice. Look at that bridgework and the state of his nails. Pentonville rather skimps on personal diet and hygiene.”

“Okay.” John swallowed. “Why is he here?”

At the unmistakable smirk in Sherlock’s tone John balled his fists in anger. The inclination to punch the snooty git in the face surpassed the subtext level by several feet. 

“Why?” Sherlock said. “Because Annie Harrison considers herself a genius and gets her kicks scaring the hell out of gullible fools like you, John. How about we find the source of that noise?”

“No,” John decreed. “I’m getting out of here and I’m going to ring Iorwerth and find out whether he’s okay. You can stay here and play with your creepy genius friends.” 

“Oh, please.” For a second Sherlock seemed to vacillate between following John or staying but then he huffed and flounced off towards the back of the cellar, the light of his torch skipping the puddles lining the floor. John retreated up the stairs, unashamedly relieved to be back in the hallway. The décor might be disconcerting but the copious illumination more than made up for that disadvantage.

Beyond the breach of the open front door the night hovered, black and all-encompassing, stretching away into vast uncaring vacuity and filled with the tiny noises of numerous small animals scurrying through their routine. John shut the door against routine murderesses, inwardly bewailing the lack of a modern lock. He plucked his mobile from his jacket pocket. Iorwerth’s number was the last in his dialling history.

The call was connected immediately. “Hello? Iorwerth,” John said. 

An all too familiar noise swelled in his ear, the squelching sound of something wet and heavy hauled along a floor. Somehow up here, bathing in the electric light of the chandelier’s numerous bulbs, the latent menace of that sound, accompanied by what John now discerned was laboured breathing, was more terrifying than it had been down in the basement’s primitive environs.

“Iorwerth,” John screamed, throat hoarse with terror. The resonance surged to a tide pounding against his eardrum before ceasing abruptly. “Iorwerth, answer me,” John implored. 

_Don’t panic_ , he told himself. _Gullible fool, don’t be a gullible fool._ Good advice for a high-functioning sociopath no doubt, but John was a thoroughly ordinary bloke, ranging slightly higher on the intelligence scale than the average UK citizen perhaps, but decidedly run-of-the-mill where it counted. 

“Iorwerth?”

Then the phone transmitted a sound that froze the blood in John’s veins. Grief-stricken sobs, wrenched from a throat swollen with crying, alternated with long moans of an agony that was more than flesh and blood could stand. 

Every nerve in John’s body screamed at him to seek out Sherlock, the embodiment of modern scientific reason, but John was long past sensible advice. Terror had welded his feet to the floor slabs and he couldn’t have moved even if he’d had the presence of mind. Somehow the mobile still hung close to his ear. “lorwerth,” he whispered into it. “Iorwerth, please.”

A part of him had been deploring the light but still he shouted when it was cut, immersing him in a darkness so sudden and absolute he was left blinking disbelievingly for several seconds. Something slimy brushed his mouth. The racket of his mobile smashing into the floor with a deafening clank as it dropped from his paralysed hand saved him from fainting dead away right then and there.

“Sherlock!” Stricken by blind fear’s terrifying clutches John scrabbled at the clammy material covering his face. “Sherlock,” he screeched again.

“John!” His friend’s voice came thundering from somewhere below, soon followed by the comforting light of the man’s torch. “John,” Sherlock repeated more calmly as he knelt beside John and brushed the back of his hand over John’s face to check his temperature. “For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you today,” he complained. “Could you quit horsing around and actually help me. I’ve uncovered a boombox down there. That explains those noises. It’s switched off now.”

“So you heard them too?”

“I’ve got perfect pitch and trained my ears for years into trapping even the faintest whisper, John.” The assumption John had detected a noise Sherlock hadn’t seemed to affront him to the core.

“Okay.” John considered this together with the information regarding the sound system. “Okay. Look. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for…” He heaved a desperate laugh. “I’m sorry for being a gullible fool, I guess. It’s just, this place, and that stupid curse, it gives me the creeps.”

“Oh, not stupid, John.” In the ambient gloom John couldn’t discern much but luckily Sherlock’s voice handily provided John with a personalised Youtube video of the detective’s hand’s derisive little wave. “Moderately clever. Probably the forebear who thought up that curse also dreamed up that hogwash of a race derived from the devil mating with a sea nymph. That bunch of tentacles in the basement, John, do you know what they’re actually made off? Some kind of rubber tubing, slicked with a glaze containing a high amount of vaseline. Prepared by Harrison, no doubt, as a tool to scare the living daylights out of anyone interfering with her designs.” 

Now actually grateful for the darkness, John buried his face in his hands. For all the times he’d called Sherlock a machine he had to acknowledge the man got results. The factual approach seemed far preferable to John’s emotional clambering around in the dark. Quite literally, in this case.

“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder,” Sherlock warned, and the next moment John felt it land, warm and comforting and definitely human. Not a machine at all. John had to swallow in quick succession to suppress the tiny noise that threatened to escape his throat, grateful for the darkness screening his face from Sherlock’s view. But then he’d probably detected the flex of John’s muscles, straight through the armour of John’s jacket, jumper, shirt and vest. 

“Thank you,” he said.

“Here’s your phone. Looks like you’ll be needing a new one. What did our client have to say?”

A fresh bout of complete hysteria jeopardised John’s newly salvaged cool. “Nothing,” he managed in a tone that didn’t sound too terror-stricken to his own ears. “He didn’t answer. Well, he did…” He racked his brain for everything he’d learned about their perpetrator so far. Murderess, genius, psychopath, doctorate in computer engineering, favourite pastime: scaring gullible fools out of their bloody wits. “It was just noise,” he said. He lacked the words to describe those hideous, blood-curdling sobs and the chilling qualms they’d sent shivering down his spine. “I suppose the line was interfered with.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock was cool efficiency itself. “What’s his number?” 

John groaned in despair. “I don’t know. It’s in the phone. I didn’t memorise it and…” He patted his pockets but he already knew Iorwerth Leighmore’s visiting card’s current location. “I left his card at the surgery. Perhaps we should try and contact the hotel?”

“No.” It seemed Sherlock had used the seconds John spent searching his clothes to rally his thoughts and as usual he’d arrived at a conclusion faster than a Formula One car roaring across the finish line. “In all probability Harrison has tampered with every signal for miles around,” he said. “Besides, if Leighmore hasn’t been snatched he will have gone home. In ringing the hotel we’ll just raise the alarm, which is the last thing he wants. Scandal, remember. No, we go after Harrison. Do you still have your torch?”

“Yeah.” John’s fingers slotted around the tiny metal shaft’s solid encouragement as Sherlock’s fingers sought his other hand to yank him to his feet.

“Come on, then,” Sherlock whooped. “Let’s get us to hell. Your mental breakdown came in handy and saved us a lot of bother searching for the right spot. The answer to the riddle rests down in that cellar, John.”

***

The cellar. If it was the last place remaining on earth John would still have preferred not descending those steps again but here he was loitering close to Sherlock’s side while his flatmate was busy checking the fuse box for whatever indiscernible reason. The body still lay in the same place where John had seen it last, about four feet to the right of the stairs, a circumstance John considered slightly reassuring. Any pondering on the implications of that fact regarding his sanity he’d leave for later, once he was safely ensconced in his chair at Baker Street again. 

“There,” Sherlock said, satisfaction lacing his voice. “Blown fuse. A coincidence, John. Not the work of some primordial mutant cuttlefish, nor Annie Harrison, which would have been more disconcerting.” At their backs the hallway chandelier sprang back to life. Sadly, the brightness didn’t penetrate very far into the basement, even though they’d left its door wide open.

“Yeah, well, thanks,” John mumbled, once more thankful for the all-pervading gloom. His heated cheeks were already colouring deeply enough without friend’s close scrutiny.

“Good.” Even in the darkness John could _see_ Sherlock twirling around and rubbing his hands in glee. “We’ve gone down to hell.” His outline popped up in the patch of light thrown by the open doorway. “Five times five and under. Hmmm, is that including the stairs or not? Quite an unusual number of steps, ten, but this building dates back to the Middle Ages. Well, there’s nothing for it. We’ll begin with fifteen. John!”

At Sherlock’s imperious bark John sprang to attention. “Yes.”

“I need you to count these steps for me.” The torch’s beam ran over the floor. From where Sherlock was standing, at the bottom of the stairs, John’s first step would have him plunge straight into a puddle that glimmered on the floor like a wicked half-closed eye of a slumbering monster. 

“Why me?” John complained.

“People were much smaller when those instructions were written, John. If I started counting those steps we might easily miss the right spot,” Sherlock explained breezily, which John effortlessly translated as Sherlock-speak for, “I don’t want to ruin my ridiculously impractical nine hundred quid a pair Oxford brogues, John, whereas it doesn’t matter if those cheap flimsies of yours end up ready for the trash heap.”

Sending Sherlock his deadliest glare John put his right foot straight into the pool.

“Ah.” Sherlock pretended surprise. John just counted his blessings no primordial mutant cuttlefish lashed out to coil a slimy tentacle around his ankle and drag him down to some secret and dank cave. He ignored the moistness creeping up his socks and took the next step. 

By the time he’d reached fifteen his shoes were squelching with each step and his socks couldn’t absorb another drib of liquid. Amazingly, the spot where he ended up was dry.

Sherlock had already flung himself at the nearest dry spot on the floor, bridging the small pool between them with the long line of his torso. The curls on his head bounced enthusiastically in a rhythm with the march of his torch, as he drew the circle of light backwards and forwards along straight parallel lines, deftly avoiding John’s feet. Possibly, he was aiming for postponing a direct confrontation between John and the sad remnants of what had once been a perfectly serviceable pair of shoes.

“There’s nothing here,” he declared at last. “Another ten steps, John.”

This time John ended up in another pool that had materialised almost straight under the wall embellished with the Cuttleknowle curse. The letters were running, great fat streaks of red dripping down the stones, with some drops falling into the water at John’s feet with a whispery splash. 

_And may a death of woe be yours_

The words shimmered in the light of his torch, like the living breath of pure evil. When John brushed his fingertips over the _w_ the paint clung warmly to the skin, as if he’d dipped his fingers in blood.

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed excitedly behind him. “Ha, Miss Harrison, not quite so clever after all.”

“What?”

“She’s buying herself extra time. Here.” Something large and unwieldy was thrust into John’s hands, which upon closer consideration turned out to be the end of a mop handle. “We’ve got some late spring cleaning to do. Too bad we didn’t bring Mrs Hudson. She would have enjoyed this.” 

Personally, John begged to differ. Their landlady might have survived marriage to a murderer and be a pro at bamboozling deep-dyed CIA agents but at her time of life a weekly dosage of ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ more than fulfilled her craving for risky endeavours. Last week’s episode in particular, she’d divulged, had been so thrilling and the jury decisions so blatantly unjust she’d almost thrown a tantrum of Sherlockian proportions and a cushion at the telly. 

However, John’s feet were too cold to engage in arguments with galling flatmates. Instead, he held onto the handle and worked silently at cleaning the pool, fuming at and overtly ignoring Sherlock’s opinions on John’s swabbing technique. It took him all of ten minutes before Sherlock pronounced the space dry and ready for consultation. Magnifier close to his eye he peered over the uneven stone, shifting on his knees in ever-widening circles, never once regarding the part of the floor John had gone to great lengths to clear but dedicating the force of his attention to the area around it. 

“It must be here,” John heard him mutter. “Get thee to hell… Five times five and under… The only stone structure for miles around. Or is it a natural feature?” 

Witnessing his boffin friend’s mounting confusion John felt his heart plummet all the way to the two glaciers at the end of his legs. Knees trembling he sank down beside Sherlock and joined in looking for a fissure or crack in the rock, anything that indicated a door to whatever lay beneath the basement. It was useless. All his finger pads skimmed over was compact damp rock. By now Sherlock’s grumbles had softened to an indistinct whisper. Thoroughly frustrated with him, their vain enterprise and the discouraging darkness John pounded the wall bearing that damned curse.

His breath hitched. Surely he must have imagined the straight seam in the stone. Fingers trembling and directing the torch he looked again and hissed when his fingers coasted over a fracture that appeared no wider than a hairline. Following the split he felt it broaden.

“Sherlock.” His voice shook with the excitement of discovery. The detective scooted over in an instant. 

“You’ve found it, John,” he hissed, every bit as excited as John. “Look…”

Trailing the long trajectory of Sherlock’s arm John ended at a carefully manicured nail poised over an equally carefully constructed opening in the wall about two inches across. Sherlock plunged two fingers into the orifice and came up with a sturdy iron ring fixed to the stone with a bolt that looked just as heavy.

“A door. I knew it,” Sherlock said. “Now to push or to pull, that’s the question.”

“Pull, definitely,” John ventured wholeheartedly. The notion of tumbling headfirst into an even darker chamber didn’t exactly appeal to him. 

“Right.” Sherlock had already engaged the handle, throwing his whole weight and determination into the ensuing skirmish between man and inanimate object. It looked like the latter was holding all the aces. Grunting in frustration Sherlock threw in the towel.

“What now?” John enquired. From the stories on the latest climate conference that had dominated the news for the past few weeks John had gathered humanity was on a crash course towards extinction due to global warming. Right now some local global warming in the vicinity of his feet would serve John marvellously fine. He was decidedly done with the whole enterprise and wanted nothing better than to prop up his feet in front of the fire at Baker Street. Or in it, rather.

“It won’t budge,” Sherlock explained unnecessarily. The swish of his coat informed John he was casting around for a solution. “Obvious,” he breathed. “Look, John, that mop served Harrison for more purposes than the one we just put it to. That’s a solid wooden handle, just the thing we need.”

The handle slithered easily through the metal hoop and with pooled resources they managed to open the door that was cut into the wall a few inches. The loud boom of a fast flowing torrent rushing down a narrow tunnel surged through the narrow gap. John’s legs tottered with the effort. 

“Christ, that’s heavy,” Sherlock puffed. “She… definitely needed a henchman. Probably called him in… once she’d found what she was looking for.” The mere fact that Sherlock still had air to spare for the ongoing commentary would have disheartened John if he’d had a care to spare but thankfully the full amount of his attention was on his arms as he tightened his muscles for the final heave.

The grind of the door swinging fully open at last was smothered by the mighty roar of the river spurting below. Around them the basement was still darker than the deepest pit in hell.

“Where’s the light?” John asked, dragging his torch’s light across the curse. “May Heaven’s gilt strike thee blind. That’s what it says. I don’t understand.”

“I may be spectacularly ignorant about some things but I haven’t deleted that heaven is supposed to be above our heads, not below our feet,” Sherlock replied, tersely. “Given the lack of further directions, I guess there’s nothing for it but to go down and find out what awaits us there.”

“Go down?” John aimed his torch at his madcap flatmate’s face, which, as John had more or less feared, looked completely serious. “There’s a tsunami rolling down there.”

“Rubbish.” Sherlock dismissed this observation. “A tsunami is a natural phenomenon…” 

Sighing, John mentally prepared for an extensive lecture on freak waves. The last thing he expected to hear was an ecstatic exclamation and the loud smack of Sherlock clapping his hands together. Apparently, due to the happy occurrence of a major brainwave that evening’s lesson had been cancelled.

“Oh, obvious!” Sherlock laughed. His guffaws mingled with the rushing river’s roar and echoed off the walls. 

“Oh, John,” he blurted. “Christ, what a joke. There’s no treasure. Remember on the drive down from Ivybridge we mostly went in a southerly direction. The car only turned for the last stretch to the tower. We’re quite close to the sea here. That whole prank is nothing but an elaborate formula to disguise a smuggling route.”

“What?”

“A smuggling route,” Sherlock repeated. “Just think, John. The Devon coast is littered with rocky coves that are nothing but steep cliffs towering over handy little landing beaches. Virtually inaccessible by land. This river flows straight into the sea. A perfect port of entry and departure for entrepreneurs with no love to spare for Her Majesty’s Revenues and Customs department. And look.”

He swung his torch to illuminate the Cuttleknowle Curse’s first word.

“Hoard. From the Old English _hord_ which is related to Old Norse _hodd_. A homonym for both save and collect. This isn’t a directive on finding treasure but on gathering it. That’s why Harrison is procrastinating and frittering away time she can’t afford with scaring off too inquisitive noses. She’s still searching for the pot of gold under the rainbow. Oh, precious.”

Arguing with the detective in his current elated state was probably a waste of perfectly good breath but John decided to give it all he had nevertheless. 

“That’s bollocks,” he contested. “And you know it. Tell me, Mr Genius Consulting Detective, why faff around with half-baked curses if the door to your private smuggling route is right down in your basement? Looks like a no-brainer to my funny little brain.”

As expected, John’s totally logical exposé didn’t deter Sherlock in the slightest. If possible, John felt the man towering even higher above him.

“Please, John,” he refuted in his loftiest tone. “Compared to that of our client’s ancestors your brain is a marvel of cognisance and sound reasoning. This is the British aristocracy we’re dealing with, the weirdest assembly of oddball renegades in the history of mankind. Trust me John, I speak from experience. I had to suffer their atrocious company for four interminable years at Eton.”

Having gotten that confession off his chest he seemed to deflate to normal proportions. 

“Ours is not to reason why,” he continued and John didn’t mind at all that he’d probably deleted the rest of Lord Tennyson’s long-winded ode to futile heroism for he could do without the poem’s next line. 

“Why do the Horse Guards exist? Why was the Order of the Garter invented? Mycroft was over the moon when he was appointed a…” Here the lofty tone reappeared briefly. “…Knight Grand Cross of The Most Honourable Order of the Bath, which means he gets to prance around with a lot of other toffee-nosed fatheads in a moronic outfit that supersedes the belief of even the most devoted _Royalty Monthly_ reader. Have you ever seen the hat that comes with the gear? Now imagine _that_ perched on top of Mycroft’s fat face. Or perhaps, better not, given your current propensity to lose it for no good reason at all. I spent a fortnight recuperating in a dark room when Mummy showed me the photograph.”

“Okay.” John endeavoured to stem the cascade of disturbing information but Sherlock was on fire.

“Pomp and circumstance, that’s what those idiots live for, having nothing better to do all day. Besides, that patchy poem actually conveys some cunning. It didn’t do for the Viscount of Cuttleknowle and Leighmore to go swanking around the county, blowing wide open that their fabulous wealth stemmed from undeclared shipping passing through their basement. And God forbid they’d get their hands dirty themselves. No, theirs was an extensive enterprise to keep hush-hush. It’s them that started the rumours and the slander. What’s a little negative publicity as long as it puts the fear of God into anyone living for miles around. The last thing they needed was a pair of prying eyes. Now, how to make sure no one starts blabbing? Obvious, create your own secret society. No doubt some absurd initiation rite was concocted so the members would feel truly singled out. Also saves on the dosh you have to dole out. A whiff of exclusivity is reward enough in itself. Ask Mycroft. Fling in a load of gibberish and silly rubbish and your people won’t spill as much as a syllable of information, should one of them fall into the wrong hands.”

Probably due to a lack of air Sherlock fell silent, which allowed John to ponder this latest argument’s premises. As (distressingly) usual, he found that, following the passages of Sherlock’s idiosyncratic reasoning, the conclusion his friend had reached was irrefutable. The curse was a hoax, crafted to pull the wool over the world’s eyes and hide the fishy endeavours of generations of venerable viscounts. 

_Jesus_ bloody _Christ._

A fresh idea flitted through John’s mind. Perhaps Victor – Wickliffe – had sussed out the Curse’s true gist as a teenager and, realising the family pride rested on a rotten foundation of ill-gotten gains, decided to turn his back on them. Mycroft had said Victor was a dab hand at spelunking and Iorwerth had told John the land was a honeycomb of underground caves. Surely John had just solved that part of the still huge puzzle that was Sherlock’s past. 

“Victor knew.” Sherlock’s voice was as deep and certain as the grave. “He couldn’t stand them, the whole snooty, despicable lot. Finally, I understand why. Lord…”

As abrupt as he’d begun speaking he broke off, leaving John decidedly in the lurch with regards to a fitting response. Words of sympathy would probably meet nothing but scorn, but surely Sherlock couldn’t deem a commiserating noise offensive to his sensibilities. In the end, following his friend’s earlier lead, John settled for an encouraging grip of Sherlock’s biceps.

“You sure you still want to go down there?” he asked, indicating the door and the thundering darkness beyond with his torch. 

“Of course.” Sherlock’s smile brightened the gloom like a single sunray penetrating a grimy skylight. “A criminal awaits us. How could I refuse?”

***

The cellar may have been bad but this place was even worse, John decided as he hurried to keep up with his friend’s long-legged stride.

The game was truly on, apparently, for Sherlock dashed down the slippery slope of the narrow pathway with effortless ease, as if he was ambling down The Broad Walk in Regent’s Park on a lazy Sunday afternoon rather than running along a roaring river that frequently seemed to merge with the rock beneath their feet. In the thrill of the chase his earlier concerns for keeping his shoes dry had been flung to the breeze.

Clearly, John lacked Sherlock’s talent for keeping his nose to the grindstone for he couldn’t help casting worried looks at the many holes, often reaching as high as a man, that peppered the corridor. Some were no more than shallow cavities in the wall, but the majority appeared to be tunnels that branched off from the passage, indicating a system of underground pathways with a span and intricacy that easily rivalled the Tube’s. With each successive shaft swallowing the light of his torch John’s heart sank deeper. If this Harrison was up to the ardent picture of gruesome genius Sherlock had painted of her they’d expire from exhaustion before ever having a chance of apprehending the woman.

What this implied for the poor Viscount’s fate John didn’t even dare consider.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock shouted over the torrent’s deafening din. “This is gorgeous. With so many tunnels Harrison will still be busy probing the first part of each one.”

As ever, Sherlock’s dead certainty of a successful outcome bucked up John’s confidence and he followed in his friend’s wake without gracing the disagreeable environment with so much as another glance.

This proved to be a definite mistake. Attempting to skip a stone with the same nimble ease Sherlock had demonstrated five seconds ago John lost his balance and nose-dived into solid rock. His last memory before blacking out was of the clammy feel of something supple and slimy slithering around his ankle.

***

John’s first inclination upon regaining consciousness was to emit an exasperated groan. He was trussed up as tight as a Christmas turkey about to enter the oven, a situation that ranked second on the personal Top 100 chart of unpleasant experiences he’d assembled since striking up an acquaintance with Sherlock. Still, he soothed himself, the odds were in his favour. He could have been sitting next to Mycroft in the backseat of that _blasted_ Bentley right now.

For all that, John reckoned keeping a low profile until he’d discovered the lay of the land and the nature of its inhabitants be the most prudent course. He cracked one eyelid for a quick reconnoitring of the terrain.

This enterprise was aided by a crackling fire some ten feet away from him. The flames leapt high, their light bouncing off the walls of a grotto which was, as far as John could estimate from his disadvantageous position, forty feet across and culminated in a height of ten feet in the middle. The heat cast by the flames had thawed his feet, for which John was distinctly grateful. However, for the parts of him that could hardly move, aka the rest of him, the warmth added to the turkey comparison so John wouldn’t have minded if Sherlock flounced in and doused the flames with a theatrical sweep of the Belstaff. 

Remembering the pervasive gloom he and Sherlock had been running through John wondered about his current location. The notion that Sherlock had missed so much as a smudge of light not cast by their torches was laughable, so this room must be at the end of some convoluted passage with so many twists and turns not a glimmer of light could escape, which severely lessened his chances of Sherlock finding him. John’s mind had just wound down to this cheery conclusion when his ramblings were interrupted by a huff at his left. 

“Please.” Momentarily John wondered whether he’d heard correctly but the noise, tinier than the tiniest mouse’s scuttle through a tiny hole, was repeated.

“Please, are you awake?”

So much pure misery laced the whisper that John opened his eye a little wider.

“Yes,” he said, adding as an afterthought for this must be the Viscount and his mother had taught him manners as a boy, “Sir.”

“Oh, thank God,” the voice said, a little louder. “Please let me introduce myself, the Viscount of Cuttleknowle and Leighmore, at your service. Not that it will do you much good for I’m bound as tightly as you are, my good man. I’m afraid our housekeeper has gone rogue on our family. She’s not here now. She brought you and bound you and immediately went off again.”

Looking for Sherlock, undoubtedly. Who just as undoubtedly had perceived by now John was missing and was out there, looking for John, so intent on the search… Rather than submit to the numerous nightmarish scenarios his mind was all too eager to unfold for his personal pleasure, John fought his bindings in an attempt to roll over onto his other side so he could eyeball the Viscount. Either the man’s sangfroid outclassed even that of the eldest Holmes sibling himself or the man was a twit ripe for the upper-class looney bin. 

Succeeding at last he found himself gazing at a rumpled, older version of Iorwerth, sporting a fashionable stubble John felt wouldn’t have covered the man’s cheeks if circumstances had been different. The man wore a pair of pyjamas crusted with filth and his hair would have a great tit couple tittering in delight at finding such a wonderful home to raise their children but in the flame’s dancing light, his eyes were the same deep azure as Iorwerth’s and bafflingly lucid for a man who’d just spent days in what was nothing better than a prison cell.

“Are you with the police?” the Viscount enquired. John ignored this for a more pressing question.

“We found a body upstairs,” he said. “Did she bring in anyone else?”

“A body?” The Viscount sounded puzzled. “Whose body? All I know is I went to sleep and woke up here. I was greatly excited for we’d just solved the riddle of the Cuttleknowle curse and we were to go treasure-hunting the next day. Ridiculous, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” John agreed while despairing at this revelation. For all he knew now Sherlock might have to outwit a horde of hardened criminals.

“I must say I’m very disappointed in Knowles’ character,” the Viscount prattled on. John gathered the man was desperate for some company. “We’ll have to dismiss her once this ordeal is over. Pity, I’d grown rather attached to her and she made my tea just the way I liked it. However, she’s been treating me most abominably ever since I woke up here.”

John sighed. If his hands had been loose and not stuck to his sides with what felt like a mile of duct tape he would have buried his face in them. Contrary to first impressions his fellow prisoner was off his trolley and by the sound of it unlikely ever to get on it again. Poor Viscount, poor Iorwerth. For all their la-di-da silliness they didn’t deserve this.

“Look,” he said in as comforting a tone as he could muster, given their dire situation. “My friend is onto it. He’s a genius. He’ll have us out of here in…”

A loud clang rang down the tunnel leading away from the grotto, billowing towards them like a tidal wave of clamour.

“Oh God.” The Viscount paled. “What’s that?”

“Close your eyes, pretend to be asleep,” John instructed in a whisper. If only he had a weapon, his torch, anything…

The racket was repeated. To John’s ears, terrified on behalf of his friend’s safety, it sounded like a battle between giants. Then there was an echo of leather soles forcefully striking the floor at incredible speed accompanied by Sherlock frantically shouting John’s name. 

To John, in that moment, it was the sweetest sound in the world.

***

“I must say I was very disappointed in Harrison’s character.” 

Sherlock sulked in his seat, eying the cheery countryside hurtling past the window with the revulsion he usually reserved for Mycroft. 

Their ordeal over, Sherlock had declined Iorwerth Leighmore’s hospitality. John had staunchly supported his flatmate’s decision, albeit in less strongly opinionated terms, while trying to deflect the worst of Sherlock’s home truths on the aristocracy in general and the Cuttleknowles in particular. They’d boarded the first train for London instead. 

After the long night’s ghoulish events there was no place John would rather be than in his own chair with his own RAMC mug and… well, he’d give any Lovecraft stories a wide berth in the future. And they would never accept another assignment in Devon, not for all the hoarded treasure in the world.

“In the end her reputation was built on nothing but hot air,” complained Sherlock. “Criminal psychopath, hah. My violin teacher sported more nefarious tendencies in his little finger. I can still feel him correcting my finger position. Her victims must have been decidedly stupid to fall for such obvious tricks.”

John refrained from comment, pretending a heady interest in the discarded copy of _Royal Monthly_ that had been left behind on the seats next to theirs. Why did people shell out good cash for such a collection of twaddle? He turned over another leaf and froze. Then he carefully tore out the picture.

The image inspired a tribulation of gargantuan horrors that far outshone Lovecraft’s endeavours at frightening his readers out of their minds. But the next time Mycroft tried to kidnap him John would be prepared.


End file.
